So this graded memo due by 8AM Monday is worth eighty percent of my legal writing grade and while I've got a portion of it written (and even edited), right now I cannot give a damn about the thing.

Here, have some the Blood-Sibs being Not Completely Right In The Head. (Fact: the Blood-Sibs are all rather shameless in incorporating Lailya's children into their pranks on one another. In the process, however, they learn valuable life skills such as subterfuge, blackmail, guerrilla warfare, and the art of the double- and triple-cross.

Yes, Lailya's perception of a proper education isn't exactly normal.)

Read more... )
Been beating my head against the wall with a Mistwrought ficlet the past week. Lailya and Halion and Farran and the morning after a truly epic absinthe bender and the drunken blackout thaumaturgical engineering (this ficlet, in fact, only came to exist because I wanted to use the phrase "drunken blackout thaumaturgical engineering" because seriously LOOK AT IT is that not an awesome phrase?) that said absinthe bender resulted in and "Fuck what did we create?" "It's going to get us preemptively banned from another five realms at least, whatever it is." "It's an unholy mating of engineering and arcana, we're looking at someone declaring war." "Oooh, we haven't had one of those recently! :D" and it's stalled out on me for various reasons, most of them boiling down to Lailya and Halion and Farran deciding to be temperamental bitches and not cooperating. AGAIN.

Why do I love these three so much despite the agony they put me through?


Had funtimes last night in the wonderful world of Azeroth! Ran through Icecrown Citadel 10-man on heroic with the guild for achievements and titles and it was awesome! Got the Glory of the Icecrown Raider achievement (hel~lo there, Bloodbathed Frostbrood Vanquisher, you are my precious new shiny) AND the "Bane of the Fallen King" title (it's my favorite title in-game, too) on (original!)Lailya. The Lich King remains my absolute favorite boss fight in the whole of WoW - great mechanics and a truly epic ending; Deathwing honestly kind of sucks on various levels - and on heroic it's still tricky for a group of level 85's with top-tier raid gear. We steamrolled through the rest of ICC pretty easily, but wiped four times on Arthas. So much fun.

Also, still way too obsessed with BPAL for my own good. We'll just end it there.

Feeling antsy, otherwise. Must find something to do and/or entertain myself. Meh. Where did I put my copy of The Alloy of Law...
dt_maxwell: ([Animals] Baby Eater)
The siblings are huddling within a nest of pillows and blankets and pilfered couch cushions situated in the far corner of a small third floor parlor. Greylin is wearing his wolfshape, not so much in the corner as laying along the entire back wall, but even he has a blanket big enough to cover him. Lykke and Siad are firmly cuddled up on either side of their elder brother, arms and fingers entangled in the thick brindled gray fur of his neck and chest. All three are staring at the parlor door, which stands slightly ajar.

A burst of high, raucous laughter pierces the silence hanging throughout the inn - a gleeful cackle that has made archdevils shake (Mama), a whispering giggle reminiscent of cracking bones (Uncle Halion), and a diabolical laugh worthy of the maddest of mad scientists (Uncle Farran).

Greylin - Scourge of the Southern Wastes, Wolf-Prince of the Crossroads, future Lord of Mistwrought - whines and flattens his ears.

"You'd think we'd be used to this by now," Siad says, trying and failing to keep his voice from shaking.

"There are non-interference rules usually in effect," Lykke says, pressing closer to her brother, "so Mama and the Uncles can't go out and do anything when someone manages to do something really stupid and piss them all off, just fume quietly and try to find something to distract themselves while we forget they have Done Things Back In The Day that would make Old Gods run screaming into the night."

"And then there are the times when they are allowed to do something," Greylin rumbles, nosing a blanket until it covers his head and shoulders and younger twin sibs. The warm darkness is a welcome comfort and muffles the lingering echoes of twisted planning. "And they make up for all the other lost opportunities-"

"-and end up going batshit crazy," says Siad.

"I was thinking more indulge their megalomaniacal tendencies in the search for sweet, sweet vengeance, but go batshit works, too."

They are not afraid of their mother and uncles. They are afraid of what they can do, as Mama, Uncle Halion, and Uncle Farran are normally able to control their tempers and act as the cool voices of reason for the eccentric collection of people that live and work in and around the Imp's Head Tavern and Mistwrought and is, for all intents and purposes, a truly sprawling extended family. It is unnerving for the Lunamortis children to see Mama and the Uncles outside the roles most familiar to them: guardians and guides and founts of wry, hard-earned wisdom. (Uncle Halion would argue there was nothing wise about Uncle Farran, who would say, nN, but I make up for it in charisma and dashing good looks, you introverted beanpole, and then they'd start hurling insults and trying to out-drink the other and draw the whole rest of the tavern into the contest and Mama would bang her head against the table and mutter brothers as both a benediction and a curse.)

The mad laughter is a reminder that their mother and uncles are people, too, three of the individuals with power over and responsibility for the spaces between worlds, not just the people who raised Greylin and Lykke and Siad, and sometimes that power goes to their heads. They have never claimed to be good people, but when you've seen the Matron Protectorate up to her elbows in cookie dough, or the Lord of Rimehaven asleep on the couch and drooling on a pillow, or the Lord-Commander of Ravens' Hold repairing a clockwork toy for the child of one his Ravens, it's hard to remember that the rest of the multiverse has only seen them at their most terrifying.

It doesn't make the audible plotting of some poor idiot's inevitable demise any less of a disturbing experience, though. Mama and the Uncles are an inventive, vindictive trio when given the opportunity.

"Do we have cookies?"

"Mint chocolate chip and snickerdoodle."

"Do we have booze?"

"Assorted Jabberwocky brands."

"Do we have board games?"

"Oh so many."

"Can we close the door, please?"

Greylin pokes his head out from the blanket and huffs a deep breath. The parlor door swings closed, muffling the echoes of laughter, and the direwolf burrows fully back under the covers.

"Best big brother ever."
dt_maxwell: ([TV] Goddess)
(Should be doing something productive with my time, like working on the three papers I have due this week, but instead I am brainstorming for Mistwrought and reading fanfic. Le sigh, self.

But anyway. Scribble ahead.

Lykke and Corbin are two of my new favorites, by the way. I REGRET NOTHING.)

Corbin has seen far too many eldritch abominations pass through Mistwrought's fog-shrouded streets (and what the Matron Protectorate did to the eldritch abominations that thought her town's citizens made decent snacks) to be phased by anything that happened at the Inn any longer. Still, walking in on his way to report to the Matron, the Raven couldn't help but notice the remains of one hell of a party in the front parlor.

He detoured to Lykke's office.

"Why is there an entire pantheon of gods passed out in the main parlor?"

Lykke glanced up from preparing her morning dose of spiced coffee. "Oh, that," she said, lifting her mug and taking a careful sip. Frowning at the taste, she set it down and added another spoonful of sugar and a few dashes of nutmeg. "First-time visitors to the Imp's Head. Got a bit too big for their britches, as it were. Mama dared them to a drinking contest, started tapping the kegs of Jabberwocky, then finally brought out the Wormwood. "Test the integrity of their livers," she said."

Corbin blinked once, then again. "Your mother fights dirty," he said. He'd have to ask Quinzel later about what precisely these gods had done to earn the ire of Lailya Lunamortis. Springing Jabberwocky Wormwood on the uninitiated without any advance warning was just...mean.

Lykke smirked and sipped her coffee. "Well, if it's a fair fight, you're doing it wrong."
...and wanted to share, too.

(And also, hey, look, an update. Kinda.)

One day I'll do a proper backstory for this 'verse. In the meantime, I have no idea what this is. Huzzah! )



December 2012

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