. . Okay, then.
I actually have clue one for the meme requests for Falcons' Feathers and Chevalier de Grammont, the remaining many-request stories.
I also appear to have an inkling of clue one for the Trickwood Unification. (dear fuck, it's way more than one novel I could actually start Wild Roses here fuuuuuuck)
Clue One means chunks of jigsaw puzzle, not ( Read more... )
I also appear to have an inkling of clue one for the Trickwood Unification. (dear fuck, it's way more than one novel I could actually start Wild Roses here fuuuuuuck)
Clue One means chunks of jigsaw puzzle, not ( Read more... )
Comments 65
just a trinket, nothing more
still water runs deep, but deep waters aren't necessarily still
clove scented smoke
hissing wires
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Sinclair eyed the wires. Considered his working gloves and his boots, and then, since he was alone, reached up behind his left ear and flicked a switch on with the tip of his finger. "Mare?"
Static popped, loud enough to make him wince his head sideways, but her voice was modulated soft when she said "Da?"
"I need you to find me an alternate route."
If she'd been human, she'd have probably asked why. Instead she asked "Five extra minutes, twenty, or fifty?"
"That depends," he replied, dropping down to a crouch so the singer mounted behind his ear could hopefully pick up the hissing sound of the wires draped across the corridor. "Which one avoids the smoking death problem?"
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(no insightful commentary for joo)
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Irina woke up with a sore neck. Tried rolling her head around as she got dressed, stretching her ear towards her shoulder, her chin to the curve of her collarbone, twisting her head to try to look behind herself. It loosened a little, enough that stretching an arm up overhead wasn't too bad, but when she looked up at the lights, her back seized up all the way from between her shoulderblades to the place where her neck met her skull.
The keen of pain barely registered in her ears. She wasn't sure if she'd squeezed all the air out of her lungs and so couldn't shriek, or if the pain was overwhelming enough that she just couldn't hear herself shriek. Blessed Mother her neck hurt ( ... )
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Symon was running late. Ruslan had run through the pre-flight list to the point he needed Symon's crosscheck, had run through it again to make sure he hadn't missed anything, and now had the manual for a troop-carrier seven open in his lap, paging through it for differences between the fives and sevens he was already familiar with.
Familiar clattering from the back announced Symon's arrival, finally, and Ruslan turned his head just enough to confirm it. "Waiting on cross-check," he started, but blinked when he got a good look at his fellow lev. "What happened to you"Remember Yeshevsky?" Symon asked back, even as he cast a not-really-casual eye down the pre-flight ( ... )
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" . . Isn't that when Khristovo assumes you've died and kicks authorization back to inactive?" The zastava-engineers claimed that was just a slightly-overactive subroutine on Rozdestvo Khristovo's part, but the active-duty sergeants were anything but convinced, and Ruslan tended to side with the sergeants. It was safer.
Why are the active-duty sergeants not convinced, and how does this relate to what's happening here?
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It is a reasonable length of time for an inactive account to get its privileges revoked--I'd guess other zastavas have slightly variant lengths of time, and some places are set to never expire, but since Sergeievich is always active wherever he is, I don't have direct knowledge of what exactly happens?
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Rending of flesh
Inopportune head colds
Fragrant blue smoke
A deck of non-standard cards
Reading wet paper
Glassy sand
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He came back empty-handed, she thought. Empty handed, annoyed by it, all long steps and hunched shoulders.
She'd left her ramp down while he'd been gone, and let the static between her skins fade out as he came inside, moved through her belly closing doors behind him until he fetched up in the kitchen. She let her attention drift away, focusing on locking the ramp behind him and confirming that the stable door was closed as-tightly.
When he shed his black skin onto the table, she discovered he was actually lighter than he'd left, by nearly a zolotnik--which was still a ridiculous measure of weight, only humans would call a perfectly innocent measure golden. The change had been disguised. He was lighter, but his skin was heavier, with something wrapped in a sheet of thin polymers taped to the inside ( ... )
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smudged like charcoal on birch-bark.
That's an interesting way for her to put it. Where has she been to be looking at charcoal on birch-bark?
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I don't know, but it smells witch-y.
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Joveta & Aleron
Fintain
Coloured glass
Fear of falling
Calm before the storm
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Her gravity coils were fluctuating. Not a lot, not in a way that spelled trouble--for him or whatever was making her twitchy--but enough to be noticeable. Enough that he was getting tense.
The second time he caught himself easing his hand towards a knife, he stood up, found a wall, and drummed on it gently with the edge of his fist.
"Grammont--" he started, and the nearest speaker-grille made a 'grraiyghr' noise that sounded disturbingly organic.
"Grammont," he repeated, louder, and tried not to flinch when her gravity clenched around him, held him still for a breathless second before smoothing out to what should have been inoffensive normality, floor below him, ceiling above, no tilts anywhere, no lingering sense of lightness or worrying weight ( ... )
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