When I sleep my neurons play odd games XI...
Fictional characters, if they had the strength and belief, were coming into the world.
Of course, given the number of people who play the Great Game, Sherlock Holmes was one of the first to come through. When characters first appeared they were both very old and very weak, but the stronger their stories the faster they became themselves. I saw Holmes briefly looking somewhat ancient and Pagetesque, but it was clear he was getting younger and more himself instead of a weak stereotype.
Then I met Moriarty: he was also old and dressed like some pantomime villian in opera cloak and top hat, but his dress shirt had some stupid 'cute' teddybear and hearts style picture on it. I started to laugh, even though I knew this was a Very Bad Idea (TM). Moriarty threw me a sardonic look and raised an eyebrow. "Something amuses?"
I tried to turn the laugh into a cough, clearing my throat. "Ah, no, ahem, do forgive my lack of propriety..."
He smiled, a genuine and un-bastard smile. "And yet she still laughs," he commented to the world in general. He glanced down at himself and then back at me. "You have my leave," he said graciously, eyes sparking with amusement. "As if you needed it. I was about to change out of this wretched get-up anyway."
When I next saw him he was dressed in a modern approximation of Victorian attire and was about thirty years younger. We and some others went to a library: there was some sort of treasure hunt / mystery / game going on, and Moriarty was looking to both complicate it for everyone else and win it himself. He had a bunch of us scurrying about finding books, hiding things, spying on people and keeping out of sight of the others playing the game. It occurred to me that in theory this made me an evil version of a Baker Street Irregular, but I didn't really care because 1) no one was actually doing anything evil, 2) it was fun and silly and 3) at one point we went to a pub, Moriarty bought me a drink and turned out to be highly entertaining to talk to and quite a flirt.
The game carried on and I think some more fictional characters turned up and in the end the Napoleon of Crime hooked up with one of the other Evil-Irregulars, which proved my point about him being a bloody flirt.
Where do my neurons get this stuff from?
This week has been filled with Pirate Coat, Necklaces of Doom, having a cold, and really weird dreams. It's been rather fun.
Yesterday was the worst with my cold at its most grotty and my coat at its most complicated. I'd planned to write a rant about how The Coat Cuffs Are Trying To Kill Me Damn Them Damn Them WTF... but didn't quite have the energy. I elected instead to watch Solomon Kane in the hope the grand silly of it would revive me. Alas, instead it sapped all will to live from my body.
It was a bloody awful film. I can't really put my finger on why it was so terrible, but it really was. I think at heart it desperately wanted to be a cinematic graphic novel, with moody lighting and heroic poses, stark landscapes and gory battles. In theory it had these, only they were all empty cheap shoddy versions of the above. Like asking for a Faberge Egg and getting a Kinder Surprise. The shear soul destroying horror of that combined with my cold sent me to bed.
Today my coat is sort of finished. It is coat shaped and all the machine sewing has been done. This leaves a bunch of hems to tack and a imperial fuck-tonne of buttons and braid stuff to sew by hand - which will either drive me insane or into a zen sewing state where I am the button. Also made more necklaces. Am now gonna watch Prince of Persia and hope it contains all the style and silly that Solomon Kane lacked.
Tomorrow I'm away to the Oast to kitchen wench for various visiting siblings, sproglings and significant others of siblings.
Of course, given the number of people who play the Great Game, Sherlock Holmes was one of the first to come through. When characters first appeared they were both very old and very weak, but the stronger their stories the faster they became themselves. I saw Holmes briefly looking somewhat ancient and Pagetesque, but it was clear he was getting younger and more himself instead of a weak stereotype.
Then I met Moriarty: he was also old and dressed like some pantomime villian in opera cloak and top hat, but his dress shirt had some stupid 'cute' teddybear and hearts style picture on it. I started to laugh, even though I knew this was a Very Bad Idea (TM). Moriarty threw me a sardonic look and raised an eyebrow. "Something amuses?"
I tried to turn the laugh into a cough, clearing my throat. "Ah, no, ahem, do forgive my lack of propriety..."
He smiled, a genuine and un-bastard smile. "And yet she still laughs," he commented to the world in general. He glanced down at himself and then back at me. "You have my leave," he said graciously, eyes sparking with amusement. "As if you needed it. I was about to change out of this wretched get-up anyway."
When I next saw him he was dressed in a modern approximation of Victorian attire and was about thirty years younger. We and some others went to a library: there was some sort of treasure hunt / mystery / game going on, and Moriarty was looking to both complicate it for everyone else and win it himself. He had a bunch of us scurrying about finding books, hiding things, spying on people and keeping out of sight of the others playing the game. It occurred to me that in theory this made me an evil version of a Baker Street Irregular, but I didn't really care because 1) no one was actually doing anything evil, 2) it was fun and silly and 3) at one point we went to a pub, Moriarty bought me a drink and turned out to be highly entertaining to talk to and quite a flirt.
The game carried on and I think some more fictional characters turned up and in the end the Napoleon of Crime hooked up with one of the other Evil-Irregulars, which proved my point about him being a bloody flirt.
Where do my neurons get this stuff from?
This week has been filled with Pirate Coat, Necklaces of Doom, having a cold, and really weird dreams. It's been rather fun.
Yesterday was the worst with my cold at its most grotty and my coat at its most complicated. I'd planned to write a rant about how The Coat Cuffs Are Trying To Kill Me Damn Them Damn Them WTF... but didn't quite have the energy. I elected instead to watch Solomon Kane in the hope the grand silly of it would revive me. Alas, instead it sapped all will to live from my body.
It was a bloody awful film. I can't really put my finger on why it was so terrible, but it really was. I think at heart it desperately wanted to be a cinematic graphic novel, with moody lighting and heroic poses, stark landscapes and gory battles. In theory it had these, only they were all empty cheap shoddy versions of the above. Like asking for a Faberge Egg and getting a Kinder Surprise. The shear soul destroying horror of that combined with my cold sent me to bed.
Today my coat is sort of finished. It is coat shaped and all the machine sewing has been done. This leaves a bunch of hems to tack and a imperial fuck-tonne of buttons and braid stuff to sew by hand - which will either drive me insane or into a zen sewing state where I am the button. Also made more necklaces. Am now gonna watch Prince of Persia and hope it contains all the style and silly that Solomon Kane lacked.
Tomorrow I'm away to the Oast to kitchen wench for various visiting siblings, sproglings and significant others of siblings.