[larpfic] Some random things after Munera
Adding stuff here for now. The first one, for once, is non-angsty and is mostly Potch being a nerd. Neeeeeeerd.
Glass Bottle (slightly obscured FOIP for activities at past events, alchemy, eidolon metaphysics, and what Potch's skills might be)
Once away from the festival and New Bantustan, there's enough time to stop and take stock for the upcoming season.
There's one of the bottles, its contents pale pink, almost clear unless you look at it the right way. Just subtle enough to not be suspicious, but also an indication that the preservative it was using is starting to age. Probably need decanting and perhaps redistilling, to make sure the doses in it are still potent enough. Mostly likely potent enough to not test them the obvious way without first learning the cure. Needing to go back to Nicholas and Providence a third time for this would be past embarrassing and into wasteful.
(I told Gossard that it tasted interesting. In my defence, I'd never tasted enough at that point for it to have had much effect. When I did, the taste was pretty interesting. The fever and vomiting even more so.)
Another bottle, almost indistinguishable from an empty one apart from the condensation against its sides. Does that one need reheating? Maybe another one is a good idea - until this festival its usefulness wasn't clear in such an immediate way.
(It surprised me just how frustrating it is to not be able to move when I want to. I'd never been knocked down before by someone who wasn't a friend.)
Asked Fiona about the one she owed. Didn't chase it up. Need to sort that out before the next festival. Always useful, always. Without it on hand most of the rest of the bag is useless.
(So many of my experiments need it. How did I manage to run out? Maybe if I hadn't used two at one festival, but, well, those interactions were fascinating to study.)
And another bottle, its contents oily and yellow, glinting gold in the afternoon light. No idea what to do with those. Sell them, maybe? Wait until there's enough time to learn to use them for something more helpful, but when will that be? Experiments, perhaps.
(Wonder whether it'd work on manifested items - now there's an idea. Does gold burn? Does it smoulder gently? Is this question academic because that weapon is a manifestation of Auriel's will and not a lump of metal?)
Yet another bottle missing - the one with the turquoise-green in it, the colour I had fun trying to synthesise when I last redistilled it, and didn't quite get right. Gave that one to an angel. Didn't check what exactly it was needed for, or ask for it back. Should probably sort that out, as well...
(Never tried this one. It's on the list, but I'm not sure who would be a suitable subject.)
Two more, unlabelled and unpleasant, one of them black and the other brown but both with the same oily texture and faint smell of rot. No, somehow I don't think I'll be doing that experiment I considered. The world's bad enough as it is without even joking about adding to the problem.
(I've done experiments that risked getting me killed. This one risks more than that.)
What else do I need? Dose of Leaden Emetic. More of the usual ingredients. A chance at the next festival to sit down with some other alchemists and talk shop rather than running everywhere and getting nowhere.
(And, if I'm lucky, the chance to do some alchemy for once.)
Beyond One's Capacity (some FOIP for headspace, slightly obscured events of Friday night)
Talking to Detail about frustrating theological matters. Staying by the gate to the camp and effectively doing gate guard duty because nobody else seemed to be. Even the walk with the others so they could go to the privy, and the wariness, and the half-retreat, and parrying and the feeling as the world spun back up to meet me again. I'm used to those things (though Gods know I'm not likely to walk into another fight, now I have a better estimation of my abilities in one).
It was when I considered going to interrupt her (the phrase you are looking for is "say hello" or possibly "say goodbye") at the fire that it hit.
I can't do this. I can't just walk over and demand attention.
She's busy. There are so many things she could be doing with this time. So many things she could be enjoying while she has the chance.
If I don't say goodbye now I won't get the chance again, and yet, and yet she should be with cheerful people, like this evenings spent singing usually are, and now that she's back I'm far from cheerful.
She tells me she's proud of me
I'm young and foolish and full of unwise ideas and
and of what I've done
can just about hold a sword, cultivate inappropriate friendships with inappropriate immortals, and
and of what I'll do
if I amount to anything it'll be because the people who started it were more devout, more certain, and I'm scared because I've known you half my life and although you leaving was hard it was worse knowing that you came back and if I couldn't say goodbye this time it would be my fault
We go back to the fire. In time it gets better, and easier, and when we face the dawn the fear is gone, and in its place is wonder.
Singing (tiny bit of backstory, mostly headspace, at least half of it lyrics)
There has been music almost as far back as I remember.
The man who taught me alchemy, Albin, whistled as he worked, and sang when he didn't think I or his wife Lela were listening. They were songs from his home, songs of people and of the Gods. Lela often sang a quiet harmony to accompany him.
Miles I have travelled, a thousand miles and more, oh
Saddle on a milk cow I've never seen before, oh
Once I came to these festivals, it turned out that sometimes people sing when they're drunk. Or when they're sober but want to sing about men and women and May mornings and reproduction. It's... interesting, in a way, what people want to sing about, but I always feel a little awkward.
Out, out from the schoolroom, the courthouse, the temple
March* in the knowledge that what we do is right
*not bask, never bask. too smug.
Singing at supplications, on the other hand - voices raised in song to praise the Gods are something wonderous.
As long as the songs have been chosen so that you can sing them in a field, without accompaniment, and have people still manage the tune (or three or four strong singers carry it well enough that others can follow them).
Sinners shall be cleansed anew, by His wise direction
Brought to know His majesty, glory and perfection
When done right, there's a joy to the singing that makes the message the song bears carry further and stay longer. It took me a while to realise how effective a good hymn can be in spreading doctrine, even among those who don't follow that god.
All things wise and wonderful
The Teacher* made them all
*Unorthodox, probably heretical; suggest "The True Gods" instead
Of course, there's the converse to this, which is that some hymns may indicate systematic problems with doctrine, or at best some slightly woolly thinking. But that's why we have brains, hands and pens.
And an eidolon behind us wouldn't do us any harm,
And an eidolon behind us wouldn't do us any harm...
That's not to say hymns are all I sing. At some of the evenings round a fire I've ended up joining in with one or other of the songs that go on for as long as people can make up verses. They're fun to come up with words for on the spot, and they're interesting each time.
If you want to find the paladins, I know where they are
They're dying all alone in a ditch
And they adapt to events around you. They're not just sung for fun. Joy, yes, but also fear, and anger, and frustration, and grief.
And it's hold, boys, hold; we'll fight with every breath
And every day we're in this place, we're two days nearer death,
But we hold
Everything we sing has meaning. We sing because to make music is worship, and to make music is joy. We sing because with music the words hurt us and hurt others less, or sound gentler while still rebuking. We sing to persuade ourselves to do things we know that we ought to, or remind ourselves of what we hold dear.
And who shall bear the holy scroll?
Good Lord, show me the way
We sing because we come to know others better through their songs, and they through ours. We sing because those we knew and have lost sang, and the songs are what we have left.
You draw the world that I must live in
Are you the writer, and I the pen?
Glass Bottle (slightly obscured FOIP for activities at past events, alchemy, eidolon metaphysics, and what Potch's skills might be)
Once away from the festival and New Bantustan, there's enough time to stop and take stock for the upcoming season.
There's one of the bottles, its contents pale pink, almost clear unless you look at it the right way. Just subtle enough to not be suspicious, but also an indication that the preservative it was using is starting to age. Probably need decanting and perhaps redistilling, to make sure the doses in it are still potent enough. Mostly likely potent enough to not test them the obvious way without first learning the cure. Needing to go back to Nicholas and Providence a third time for this would be past embarrassing and into wasteful.
(I told Gossard that it tasted interesting. In my defence, I'd never tasted enough at that point for it to have had much effect. When I did, the taste was pretty interesting. The fever and vomiting even more so.)
Another bottle, almost indistinguishable from an empty one apart from the condensation against its sides. Does that one need reheating? Maybe another one is a good idea - until this festival its usefulness wasn't clear in such an immediate way.
(It surprised me just how frustrating it is to not be able to move when I want to. I'd never been knocked down before by someone who wasn't a friend.)
Asked Fiona about the one she owed. Didn't chase it up. Need to sort that out before the next festival. Always useful, always. Without it on hand most of the rest of the bag is useless.
(So many of my experiments need it. How did I manage to run out? Maybe if I hadn't used two at one festival, but, well, those interactions were fascinating to study.)
And another bottle, its contents oily and yellow, glinting gold in the afternoon light. No idea what to do with those. Sell them, maybe? Wait until there's enough time to learn to use them for something more helpful, but when will that be? Experiments, perhaps.
(Wonder whether it'd work on manifested items - now there's an idea. Does gold burn? Does it smoulder gently? Is this question academic because that weapon is a manifestation of Auriel's will and not a lump of metal?)
Yet another bottle missing - the one with the turquoise-green in it, the colour I had fun trying to synthesise when I last redistilled it, and didn't quite get right. Gave that one to an angel. Didn't check what exactly it was needed for, or ask for it back. Should probably sort that out, as well...
(Never tried this one. It's on the list, but I'm not sure who would be a suitable subject.)
Two more, unlabelled and unpleasant, one of them black and the other brown but both with the same oily texture and faint smell of rot. No, somehow I don't think I'll be doing that experiment I considered. The world's bad enough as it is without even joking about adding to the problem.
(I've done experiments that risked getting me killed. This one risks more than that.)
What else do I need? Dose of Leaden Emetic. More of the usual ingredients. A chance at the next festival to sit down with some other alchemists and talk shop rather than running everywhere and getting nowhere.
(And, if I'm lucky, the chance to do some alchemy for once.)
Beyond One's Capacity (some FOIP for headspace, slightly obscured events of Friday night)
Talking to Detail about frustrating theological matters. Staying by the gate to the camp and effectively doing gate guard duty because nobody else seemed to be. Even the walk with the others so they could go to the privy, and the wariness, and the half-retreat, and parrying and the feeling as the world spun back up to meet me again. I'm used to those things (though Gods know I'm not likely to walk into another fight, now I have a better estimation of my abilities in one).
It was when I considered going to interrupt her (the phrase you are looking for is "say hello" or possibly "say goodbye") at the fire that it hit.
I can't do this. I can't just walk over and demand attention.
She's busy. There are so many things she could be doing with this time. So many things she could be enjoying while she has the chance.
If I don't say goodbye now I won't get the chance again, and yet, and yet she should be with cheerful people, like this evenings spent singing usually are, and now that she's back I'm far from cheerful.
She tells me she's proud of me
I'm young and foolish and full of unwise ideas and
and of what I've done
can just about hold a sword, cultivate inappropriate friendships with inappropriate immortals, and
and of what I'll do
if I amount to anything it'll be because the people who started it were more devout, more certain, and I'm scared because I've known you half my life and although you leaving was hard it was worse knowing that you came back and if I couldn't say goodbye this time it would be my fault
We go back to the fire. In time it gets better, and easier, and when we face the dawn the fear is gone, and in its place is wonder.
Singing (tiny bit of backstory, mostly headspace, at least half of it lyrics)
There has been music almost as far back as I remember.
The man who taught me alchemy, Albin, whistled as he worked, and sang when he didn't think I or his wife Lela were listening. They were songs from his home, songs of people and of the Gods. Lela often sang a quiet harmony to accompany him.
Miles I have travelled, a thousand miles and more, oh
Saddle on a milk cow I've never seen before, oh
Once I came to these festivals, it turned out that sometimes people sing when they're drunk. Or when they're sober but want to sing about men and women and May mornings and reproduction. It's... interesting, in a way, what people want to sing about, but I always feel a little awkward.
Out, out from the schoolroom, the courthouse, the temple
March* in the knowledge that what we do is right
*not bask, never bask. too smug.
Singing at supplications, on the other hand - voices raised in song to praise the Gods are something wonderous.
As long as the songs have been chosen so that you can sing them in a field, without accompaniment, and have people still manage the tune (or three or four strong singers carry it well enough that others can follow them).
Sinners shall be cleansed anew, by His wise direction
Brought to know His majesty, glory and perfection
When done right, there's a joy to the singing that makes the message the song bears carry further and stay longer. It took me a while to realise how effective a good hymn can be in spreading doctrine, even among those who don't follow that god.
All things wise and wonderful
The Teacher* made them all
*Unorthodox, probably heretical; suggest "The True Gods" instead
Of course, there's the converse to this, which is that some hymns may indicate systematic problems with doctrine, or at best some slightly woolly thinking. But that's why we have brains, hands and pens.
And an eidolon behind us wouldn't do us any harm,
And an eidolon behind us wouldn't do us any harm...
That's not to say hymns are all I sing. At some of the evenings round a fire I've ended up joining in with one or other of the songs that go on for as long as people can make up verses. They're fun to come up with words for on the spot, and they're interesting each time.
If you want to find the paladins, I know where they are
They're dying all alone in a ditch
And they adapt to events around you. They're not just sung for fun. Joy, yes, but also fear, and anger, and frustration, and grief.
And it's hold, boys, hold; we'll fight with every breath
And every day we're in this place, we're two days nearer death,
But we hold
Everything we sing has meaning. We sing because to make music is worship, and to make music is joy. We sing because with music the words hurt us and hurt others less, or sound gentler while still rebuking. We sing to persuade ourselves to do things we know that we ought to, or remind ourselves of what we hold dear.
And who shall bear the holy scroll?
Good Lord, show me the way
We sing because we come to know others better through their songs, and they through ours. We sing because those we knew and have lost sang, and the songs are what we have left.
You draw the world that I must live in
Are you the writer, and I the pen?