Starcaptain's blog

Specialist Fsau Léan, Part 2

hraith — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 05:00:28 GMT

I found a partially composed recording addressed to me in my mother's personal files. It sounded piecemeal, so I guess she'd been working on it on and off for a while. It included the following:

"Léan, you know I love you, but I've always been neglectful in telling you so. You probably resent me for it. I never proffered you the same guidance and criticism I gave your sisters. I never held you to the same high expectations. I'm sure I could have given a hundred reasons for treating you differently at the time, but I know looking back, as on some deeper level I knew back then, that it was wrong to do so.

"Please accept my apology, Léan. Please know that my choice to be a more passive parent with you wasn't because I loved you any less, but rather it was the way I sought to rear you with love. Don't think I didn't care whether or not you succeed. I do care. Some of my attitudes toward you, some of the things I said - I remember them clearly enough, and they sound cruel to me now. What an awful mother you must have thought me. I never pushed you like I pushed your sisters; I never dreamed big for you. Maybe I expected you to figure out the world all by yourself? Maybe I couldn't read your subtle signals and needed a good rake in the hide to be reminded to give you attention? I don't know.

"Heh. Your sisters have long complained that I was too heavy-handed with them. They envied all that passive acceptance I lavished on you. Apparently I can never get this parenting thing just right. If I'd thought for a moment that either one of them could accomplish anything without me biting at their tails... well, maybe I would have backed down, and maybe I wouldn't have. I'm proud of all three of you. I'm proud of you, Léan, for succeeding at life without much parental guidance to build from. Everything you've done, you've done it on your own. It doesn't matter what I expect out of you; you've proven that you're capable all on your own, and I'm very proud of you.

"Don't ever think you're ordinary. I know, I've said it a thousand times, but I was an idiot for even thinking it. You're a Fsau through and through. You have a big chunk of me in you. Half of your genes are mine! You can do anything I can do; anything you want to do. It doesn't have to be politics. I'm a little late with this speech, aren't I? It should have come while you were little. I wish I could start over, hold my little boy in my arms, and whisper, 'Jump for the stars! You can reach them!'

"But you already have, haven't you? You've been jumping for the stars this whole time. And I didn't notice."

I closed the file and shut down my mother's computer. My mind raced through all the old gripes and issues I've carried with me for years, but with this new apology on top of it all. I never expected Mom to be capable of saying such things. Of even thinking them. But she's my mother, you know? I don't love her any less for being the way she is. I don't need an apology.

'Léan' means 'stoic', a name that describes me fairly well. I don't air my insecurities. Mom and I have that in common.

I still had plenty of time to kill. A quick search of the cupboards showed me that there wasn't much for dinner, so I took a walk down the street and purchased some organ meats at the butcher and spices at the flavor shop. I lit the oven and had a nice hot meal cooking for Mom and Sahé when they returned.

"We weren't expecting you so soon!" Mom said. She hugged me and I breathed her familiar scent. Nothing says 'home' like one's mother's scent.

Sahé sniffed at dinner. "Hey, little brother, that's some hot stuff you're cooking up. When did you develop a taste for spicy?"

I said, "Oh, sorry. I'm used to adding peppers to everything. It's a Knifeclaw Company thing. We do it to break the tedium of eating the same old MREs day after day." I didn't need to mention the influence of Dshagu cuisine. They knew I was serving under a Dshag and they didn't like to talk about it. Both my mother and my sister are opposed to granting the Dshag any additional rights, and I'm always afraid I'll start something if I bring it up. I can't promise that I wouldn't argue back. Ensign Nulu is a good warrior and I'm proud to serve under him. And some of the arguments against the Dshag can be pretty hurtful.

It's a difficult issue and I'm still not sure what I think. Defending their rights, however, that's a pretty radical position, and I'm no political radical. I'm no political anything. When I show up at galas, people say, "Oh, aren't you Councilor Fsau's son? How is she doing? She looks lovely tonight!"

Several times, my mother forbade me to speak at social events. "You never know whose ears might be pricked!" she'd warn. I was only allowed to nod and smile as her cronies talked my ears off. No one noticed any difference. But that's irrelevant to this story.

"I'm sure it will be delicious," Mom said in that sweet voice of hers that precludes arguing.

I thought it was pretty good. Mom and Sahé suffered stoically through it, sad to say. It's a fact that pretty much no one has an innate taste for hot pepper - it takes a great deal of self-discipline to acquire it. Which says a lot, I think, about Knifeclaw Company and about space travel in general. It also says a lot about the Dshagu culture. Don't they start their children eating spicy foods at some unthinkably young age?

[Cont'd]

Liberty - Specialist Fsau Léan

hraith — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 12:58:05 GMT

I just got back from war exercises, back for another six months of liberty. (By the way, the exercises were aborted halfway through. The Griys complained we were encroaching on their territory, which was obviously why we chose that sector in the first place - it's supposed to be a show of muscle. Stupid sniveling Griys.) This time I got myself an internship on the military base in Ki City - that's right, my home town. The town my mother has helped run since before I was born.

A little bit of background, in case you don't remember: my mother is a civilian city councilor and a Very Important Individual. With a very long name - although most of her peers refer to her as simply Councilor Saeng Tvìel, because they know the remainder of her names are merely trophies she took from her numerous ex-husbands. My own father was Admiral Gachùanha Alo gü Mohh, and she hated his guts, but she kept his name. He used to be on the Ki City military council, but Mom ran him off.

She's had a long and illustrious career, but now she's old and she's reached that stage where her position is mostly just honorary. My two older sisters are now on the council as well, and my niece is a junior member. We're like a frigging dynasty.

Well, not me. I was always the 'ordinary' one. Mom groomed Saròr and Sahé for politics right from their births, but when I came along, she couldn't do anything with me. I was a shy kid, a misfit, easily frustrated and frequently overwhelmed by the demands of my mother's world. I was very contrary and uncooperative. Mom had lots to say about my behavior, not much of it encouraging. Now I'm a grunt in the military; having failed once at recruiting, I'm back for more as a computer network specialist. All unthinkably ordinary stuff. I can't even discuss my career with Mom or my sisters; they glaze over and wish I'd stop making them think about the endless drudgery that is my life.

But that's okay. I've accepted it. When I reenter their world, I dress nicely and speak formally about as little as I can get away with. I eat with the tips of my claws and wipe them one at a time. I nod and sigh at all the right places in the conversation. When Mom says dismissively, "You wouldn't understand," or, "You were in space then," I readily agree with her.

I stopped by the apartment my mother shares with Sahé. Neither of them were home, so I let myself in and played with their computer while I found something to eat. And I found this message, tucked away for later use, with my name in it.

Yes, I was snooping! That's what we network specialists do.

[To be continued]

Knifeclaw Company at the cathouse

hraith — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 06:42:12 GMT

(Note: narrated by Nulu, as usual.)

Captain Hraith and his crew march into the station’s restaurant and choose a corner to sprawl out in. Plates heaping with food of various sorts are placed on the side table by the station’s serving staff, and the Knifeclaw Company crew gather and laugh and rest.

When they’re done, Hraith gets up.

Hraith: “I have to go report to Admiral Koscha. Go on without me.”

Maihi: “Vou and I are thinking of turning in. Don’t hurry back, guys.”

[Eh. Unfortunately that means I’ll have to accompany the crew to the ladies’ house so that we may allow Ciesil and Maihi their privacy.]

The group splits up. Nulu tags along behind Jodhrakt, Ucht-alau, Kruugh, and Fsau.

They all stop in front of the ladies’ house door and peer in, sniffing curiously or eagerly at it.

Jodhrakt: “Who’s first? Shall we go by seniority?”

Ucht-alau turns to look at Nulu. Nulu shrugs back at him.

Nulu: “Do as you will, men.”

Kruugh: “I was… um… maybe I shouldn’t do this either.”

Jodhrakt: “Why not, kid? Captain’s treat! What have you got to lose?”

Kruugh: “I’m just not sure I, uh…”

Fsau: “Nav, don’t worry. The ladies are pros. They don’t mind inexperience.”

Jodhrakt: “Yeah, listen to Fsau. He knows.”

Fsau glares at Jodhrakt, who grins mischievously back. Kruugh continues to look worried. Nulu stands in back, a step or two distant, and waits for his crew to get it over with. Ucht-alau is looking stoic and good-natured as usual.

Ucht-alau: “Tell you what, Kruugh. I’ll go first, and you can go ahead and claim last place. That will give you plenty of time to make up your mind. If you decide against it, we’ll go back to quarters. No harm done.”

Kruugh: “Yes, sir.”

Kruugh is crouched on the floor against the wall next to Nulu, who has settled down for the long haul. The other three are inside the ladies’ house. Ucht-alau comes out, straightening the top of his uniform, and looks cheerfully at Kruugh.

Ucht-alau: “All yours, Kruugh, if you want.”

Kruugh: “I… yeah, sure.”

Kruugh timidly enters the building.

Later on, he and Nulu are tagging along behind the other three when Kruugh turns and touches Nulu’s arm.

Kruugh: “Lieutenant Nulu, sir? I’d like to speak with you privately. May I buy you a drink?”

[I wonder what this is about.]

Nulu: “Of course, Specialist.”

Nulu and Kruugh sit on a cushion, cradling drinks in their paws. Nulu scowls down into his cup. Kruugh looks very nervous.

Kruugh: “Sir, I suppose this question is of a very personal nature. If I’m overstepping my bounds, please let me know.”

Nulu: “Go ahead, Specialist.”

Kruugh: “It’s common knowledge that you don’t indulge in the ladies because of your loss. I don’t really have anything like that going on for me; not even close. But I was thinking upon the practice of being celibate for long periods of time, just for my own reasons, and I was wondering what it was like, having done it awhile.”

[Ah. I can piece together what happened in there. It went something like this.]

Imagined flashback. Kruugh is entering the girl’s room. The girl has on a sheer, revealing garment and is sitting on the mat looking up at him invitingly. When she sees his disfigurement, she hardly blinks. She is well trained to stifle any knee erk reactions.

He sits on the mat beside him. She reaches forward and begins to finger his sash, but he pulls away.

Kruugh: “Wait.”

Girl: “All right. Just let me know what and when. I’m all yours. Have you done this before?”

Kruugh: “Well, no, not really. And ‘m just… I just have to figure things out first.”

Girl: “Of course. Let me help. What do you have in mind? Do you need a starting point? A suggestion? Do you want me to start?”

Kruugh: “Maybe. No. Yes. There’s just one thing.”

Girl: “Yes?”

Kruugh: “Is it… hm… is it okay if we just talk?”

The girl drapes one arm over Kruugh’s shoulder – the left one, the one wth fur still on it. She smiles.

Girl: “Sure! Of course. You’re paying me!”

Kruugh looks slightly more relieved.

Girl: “What do you want to talk about? Got any good war stories? I bet you do.”

Kruugh: “I don’t want to talk about that. Sorry. I hope you don’t mind.”

The girl shrugs and smiles some more.

Girl: “Nope, not a bit. It’s all good to me.”

Kruugh: “Maybe you could tell me about your family Do you have any siblings?”

The imaginary flashback fades out, returning to Kruugh and Nulu nursing their drinks.

[And so on. I can tell because he did not exit the ladies’ facility smelling like sex.]

Kruugh: “So I was considering trying out celibacy for a while myself, and I was wondering – how does it work in the long term? Is it hard? Are there any secrets? How long can a man go before it becomes problematic?”

Nulu looks decidedly uncomfortable.

[What answer can I give him? Especially after my transgression. He deserves something.]

[Oh, to hell with it all.]

Nulu: “The only thing it takes to be celibate is to not have relations with a woman. If you don’t have relations, you’re celibate.”

Kruugh: “Oh. Well, yeah. But is there more to it than that? Some self-control techniques?”

Nulu: “Self-control is the same regardless of what act you apply it to. Whether it’s fearlessness while scaling the side of a building, resisting killing your enemy, or holding yourself to celibacy. There is no difference. You simply decide you won’t do it, and you don’t.”

Kruugh: “Oh, okay.”

Nulu: “Is that sufficient?”

Kruugh: “I guess. But what if I don’t wish to be celibate, but feel obligated to against my will?”

Nulu: “Because of your disfigurement?”

Kruugh: “Yeah. When I went in there, I was overcome with guilt. It doesn’t matter that she’d been paid to touch me. Just the idea that I was forcing her to touch bare skin made my heart break. It’s cruel. She was such a nice girl, too. I couldn’t be so cruel to her.”

Nulu: “That’s a conundrum. If you consider the very act of physical contact an act of cruelty…”

Kruugh: “I know. But it IS cruel. Nobody in their right mind would willingly want to touch me.”

Nulu: “Well… I don’t know about that.”

Kruugh: “You wish to tell me I’m wrong. Unfortunately, I’m not. It’s something I have to come to terms with myself now. I’m damaged goods. I should be grateful I came away with my life. I shouldn’t dwell on the extras in life.”

Nulu nods and sips his drink.

Kruugh: “It pisses me off that a woman’s affections have now become an extra. Graah. It sucks more than words.”

Nulu: “Yeah.”

Kruugh: “Sorry, sir. I shouldn’t be dumping on you like this. I just… I just…. I shouldn’t.”

Nulu frowns and shrugs.

Nulu: “Eh. No bother.”

NaNo excerpt - Nulu Tchaoshou

hraith — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 05:44:32 GMT

(Note: Nulu had to go to town to get a few things. He's still pointedly ignoring the local fishermen who hang out at the general store. They're having trouble containing their curiosity about him, but he manages to keep his temper. They've given him the nickname 'Hot Peppers'.)

Nulu then places the order he had come to place. He gathers up the provisions Gotau has laid out for him and puts them in his sack. They again include one pouch of warsh. Nulu is trying to ease off the booze slowly. It helps that he's too proud to develop a taste for the bland, dishwatery local hooch. As he's leaving, one of the locals stands up and takes a few steps toward him.

Local 2: "Hey, Hot Peppers, if yeh be needing some help, din't be slow ta ask. Ser'ous. We be glad, all."

Nulu pauses, hesitates, and almost but doesn't quite look the guy in the eye.

Nulu: "I'm set. Thank you."

Nulu leaves.

It's still a long trek from the village to his home base, and his body aches from all the abuse he's been giving it lately. He trudges on silently, head bowed, watching his toes land between pebbles and tufts of grass. The sun is going down behind the line of scraggly trees to the west, and animal noises can be heard from the distant brush. Nulu has no thoughts of hunting. He has lived in a culture where hunting is illegal all his life and was never particularly enamoured with the idea. Safari parks generally don't encourage Dshagu patronage, and Nulu's upbringing tended to focus heavily on warriorship, to the detriment of skills relevant to wilderness survival.
He stops on a hill slope and sits down, letting his pack slip onto the grass beside him. He is hungry and thirsty and tired, and he sates those needs in that order. First he pulls out a bundle of rotarians wrapped in oil cloth. They are already cooked and probably a day or two old; their odor is already starting to sharpen.

He gulps down a few, spits out the shells into the dirt beside him, and pulls out the pouch of warsh. He looks at it thoughtfully, fingering its latch with one extended claw.

[I promised the Captain I would dry out.]

[I promised myself I would dry out after I completed the house.]

[My problem is that I plunged too deeply into self destruction too quickly. The best way to clean myself up before I get the call to ship out again is to alter my habits just as quickly. Strenuous exercise and strict moderation of foodstuffs – that should be my method.]

[The strenuous exercise is already accounted for.]

[There is no point, then, in fretting over it.]

Nulu takes a guzzle from the pouch. He closes it again, licks his lips, and frowns.

[Its taste is still lacking.]

He returns it to his sack and leans back in the grass.

[The fresh air is sweet and salty. I never thought to stop and appreciate it until now; I've been so wrapped up in my problems.]

[I ought to take more time to enjoy my surroundings.]

Nulu struggles to his feet, hefts his pack over his shoulder, and continues on. When he gets to the building site, Fanwy is there working alone at smoothing the pit. She grins toothily at him, her tail waving in slow figure eights behind her. Nulu drops his pack on the hill near the entrance to his tent and opens it. He turns and watches Fanwy, wondering whether to offer her refreshments. She's slaving away like the little powerhouse she is, and he's torn. Show her too much friendship and she's likely to latch onto him even more. Push her away and he'd be doing her and himself a disservice, and possibly sabotaging a friendship he'll really need in the future. She is not at all the kind of person he'd prefer to seek help from, but she's the only one offering.

Except, of course, that local guy back at the general store. Nulu isn't certain the guy was serious. He's afraid the locals plan to set him up, humiliate him somehow, and leave him in an even more difficult position than he is in now. That seems much more likely than genuine concern. No one shows generosity to a Dshag but another Dshag. No one.

He'd level the same suspicion on Fanwy, but she's doing a marvelous job with the construction of his house. She obviously has the skills he lacks. He feels fortunate that he has any skill at all; otherwise she'd make a fool out of him in no time. Her intentions seem pure, though, and Nulu can't explain how that could be. What does she want out of him? He has nothing she could want. Maybe she thinks he's rich. He is, by rural standards, and if she tried to convince him to buy things for her, her motives would make sense. Instead, she gives and gives and never asks for anything. All of her questions are of a highly personal nature.

She could be trying to seduce him, but if so, her approach is all wrong. No sexual advances, no touching at all, just that grating personality of hers and a lot of hard physical labor. Maybe, he thought, that was how seduction was done in these backwards parts. A mate who could pull her weight in hard work might be their idea of the best mate of all. A strange concept, but it made more sense than anything Nulu had thought up so far.

Eventually she hops out of the pit and helps herself to his provisions. She says nothing about them, fails to indicate whether or not his choices please her, and instead starts rambling about the foundation.

The sun is nearly gone by now, leaving a dim haze on the horizon. Fanwy, visibly exhausted, says goodbye and heads off down the road. Nulu watches her go until she's out of scent range. Then he gets down on all fours and crawls into the tent, dragging his pack in with him.

He curls up on the tent floor. It gets dark. Nulu thinks to himself.

[I miss Ansìl.]

[She would love this place. She would find a way to. Everything around her had the potential to be beautiful; everything and everyone.]

[She was truly an ocean girl. She even tasted like sea salt.]

[I have not been to the beach yet, although I know from the sound and smell of it and from the ocean winds that it is nearby. I can imagine it in my mind's eye, but my imagined beach has Ansìl on it.]

[I have no desire to see a beach without her on it.]

NaNo excerpt - Nulu Tchaoshou and Jrinh Fànwy

hraith — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 00:49:24 GMT

They sit in awkward silence together. Nulu steals a sniff at Fanwy. Fanwy steals a glance at Nulu.

[I'm being rude. It's unfair to her to be treated this way.]

[It would be easier if her rules of engagement and mine matched more closely.]

[I can't help thinking that her plain country ways are purer; closer to the ancestral ways. That the city has corrupted me. This is inaccurate. She is a modern day fisherman from a culture younger than mine. Her crude ways are more due to social isolation than to any special connection to a purer way of living. The days of living close to the earth, close to the herds, are too much romanticized. There's nothing romantic about work and sweat. There may be satisfaction in it, I hear. Perhaps I can use that as a goal to push me along in my house building project. To become more like Fanwy is a pointless goal. She is nothing like how I imagined a person amidst the wilderness would be. Again, overly romanticized. The open spaces are real; they come with the dirt and dampness and unforgiving cold that I should have anticipated but somehow failed to.]

[Perhaps Fanwy's roughness is merely a response to that. Perhaps her energy is, as well. Though I've spent days walking the city streets of Kuthy – Nul, whatever – and thought myself exceptional in stamina, I now see that my standards were affected by the lethargic life of urban environs. I am humbled.]

[But still annoyed.]

[And ashamed. Fanwy is right about my failure to adapt.]

[On the other hand, my failure to adapt was apparent at home as well. Would one call my habit of drunkenly haunting the alleys of the ghetto a form of thriving?]

Nulu: "Fanwy, I—"

Fanwy looks at him bemusedly, ready to speak but holding herself back from doing so.

Nulu: "My coldness is not intentional. I hope you can understand that. There is a great deal of explanation behind my behavior that I have not given you."

Fanwy: "Oh. Yah. Do yeh plan to? 'S it all raight if I ask if yeh plan to?"

Fanwy: "I never am sure too much wha's okay to say and wha's not. Smells like yehr feelings 're so already hurt."

Nulu: "It's nothing. Don't concern yourself with me."

Fanwy: "Okay. I won't."

Fanwy: "Wha's so wrong 'bout the city tha you wanted ta come here? Yehr a strange sort ta be moving to Etri Island fer no reason. There gotta be a reason. Wha's yehr reason?"

Nulu: "I choose to be here."

Fanwy: "Why d'yeh choose to?"

Nulu: "For the opportunity to build a house."

Fanwy looks skeptical but says nothing in response.

It's the next day. Nulu is emerging from the tent, groggy and hungry, and Fanwy has already arrived. She's holding a pouch of warsh in one paw and several fish in the other. She is smiling widely. Behind her, the trench is a full circle and the power shovel is facing inward. Rocks of various sizes, from goat-sized to cat-sized, are arranged in piles, more or less, around the rim of the trench.

Fanwy: "Good day, Lieutenant! I brut some provisions so we din't have to be unprovisioned like yestehday. Fish 'fore starting?"

Nulu: "Mh."

Fanwy: "Go on, take one. Yeh want it. I do not know why yeh won't take wha yeh want."

[I do want it. Likewise, I cannot properly explain why I hesitate. It's fresh; most likely caught this morning. It smells maddeningly good. Only a fool would reject it.]

[Call me a fool, then. My actions of late have defied reason, and while that in itself is no explanation, it is still the truth.]

[Must be sobriety.]

[That's nonsense, of course, but if I am to lack reason anyhow, I may as well be free to blame whatever I like on sobriety.]

Nulu takes a fish.

Fanwy holds out the pouch as he eats it.

Fanwy: "Take some warsh too. It'll clear yeh head some."

[Oh yes. Won't it ever. Wash this horrible sobriety away.]

Nulu accepts the pouch and takes a greedy gulp from it.

Fanwy grabs it back as soon as he takes a breath.

Fanwy: "Save some f'r break. Le's work now."

They get to work digging out the center of the circle. It's a little bit quicker work now because they have more room on either side of them to remove the rocks. Nulu pushes the power shovel and Fanwy guides it and clears the way, arranging the larger rocks into more neat little piles on the rim.

When the foundation is completely dug, it's noon. They're still working as they chat.

Fanwy: "So why yeh here?"

Nulu: "... Ma'am..."

Fanwy: "No Ma'am! Wha's Ma'am? Meh name's Fanwy! Fanwy, the girl who's helping yeh dig yehr house, yeh? In't we friends yet?"

Nulu: "Fanwy. You are too presumptuous."

Fanwy: "Oh."

They work awhile longer.

Fanwy: "'s tha bad?"

Nulu: "Mh? Is what bad?"

Fanwy: "Passuntuous."

Nulu: "..... ....."

Nulu: "...Yes. Quite."

Fanwy: "Yeh in't so wunnerful yehself."

Nulu: "I am well aware, thank you."

Fanwy: "Yehr trying a' peeve me off, in't yeh?"

Nulu: "That might be the case."

Fanwy: "And here's me digging yehr stupid pit f'r yeh. Yeh mebbe could think ta show a lil appreciation, yeh."

Nulu: "You are correct. I could."

Fanwy: "Wha's yehr problem, then?"

Nulu: "I.... good question, Ma'am."

Fanwy: "Fanwy."

Nulu: "Fanwy. Good question, Fanwy."

NaNoWriMo excerpt - narrated by Specialist Ucht-Alau Hze

hraith — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 17:25:02 GMT

Liberty, sweet liberty. For a natural-born storyteller like me, it's torture to have to come home from a mission marked as 'confidential'. Especially this mission. Oh, the stories I can't tell! The explanations I can't give! The reality is that we've changed out there. We've all come back different than how we were when we left.

And not just Apprentice Krüugh, either. Krüugh came home in pieces; he almost didn't come home at all. When we docked, everyone we met wanted to know what had happened to him. Of course they did! When you see your comrade being carried out of his vessel wrapped in gauze, coated in a weird alien medicinal gel that smells like the oils of some unknown species of plant, your curiosity is going to shoot toward the stars! What – or who – did that to him? Is it something that could happen to the rest of us too? We spacemen already face numerous hazards. We're always fearful of discovering new ways to die.

But let me engage in just a little storytelling, just between you and me. Don't spread any of this around. It's only about liberty, but some confidential information is sure to slip out.

We turned the gyroscopic loading dolly into a litter for Krüugh and wheeled him off the ship in the grandest style. Nested in blankets and pillows, propped up with an ammo case, getting fussed over by Specialist Ciesìl while I guided his ride through the Kuthy satellite corridors. Captain Hraith marched ahead of us, making sure everyone knew our procession had an air of urgency to it.

An old friend of mine passed us coming the other way. "Outta the way!" the Captain hollered at him, as he was doing to everyone.

My buddy drifted to the ceiling; I recognized his scent as I pushed the precious cargo below him and greeted him with a hasty, "Hey there."

"Ucht-alau!" he replied, falling in step behind me. "What happened? Where were you deployed? Is that a member of your crew?"

I turned to answer, but Captain Hraith ahead of us barked out, "Confidence! No chatting!"

I was unable to slow my pace, but my friend kept up with us a few seconds longer. Long enough for our eyes to meet and for me to catch worry in his scent. I tried to convey in that short moment that Krüugh wasn't likely to die, as far as we knew. He could speak and think if you gave him enough time, although the next steps in his recovery were still uncertain. I tried to convey that his condition was a singular incident and didn't mark the next wave of alien devastation; not another epidemic of fulminant hemolytic aspergillosis or neurotoxic bacteria. Not necessarily another violent phase of war.

I don't know whether I succeeded.

Apprentice Specialist Krüugh's condition was hard to puzzle out at first scent. He was covered and immobile, and most of the information we had to go on was from the Rén. And badly translated. Our own doctors at the satellite station infirmary hadn't known what to make of it.

If it had been up to our own doctors, Krüugh would have died. They'd been absolutely certain. Nobody can get a third of their skin chemically frostburned off and survive.

Now somebody has.

He's just a kid. I can't blame him for going on obsessively about how he must continue serving. I'd do the same thing. Can you imagine being forcibly discharged due to injury? I can't. What would I do? I have no grasp of civilian life. I was born on a military space station, I was raised amongst Kiksk and other military brats, and I've always lived on base when I'm planetside. My parents retired to the 113/1 satellite base – they can't even bring themselves to wait out their last years as civilians on planet Origin.

Krüugh's family is different. He grew up as a civilian and only chose to serve a few years ago. I imagine it's different when service is a choice. You can always go back and make a different choice.

After that brief moment, my friend fell back. I kept pushing, caught up in the urgency of getting Krüugh out of the Kuthy Anchor Station and down the space elevator so he could be hospitalized again. I did, however, steal a last glance over my shoulder as we sped away. He was staring after us, steadying himself in the zero-G with one paw on the wall.

I wonder what he told the rest of the Anchor Station crew. Orders of confidentiality don't prevent gossip. I'm not the only incurable storyteller in the military. Not by a long shot.

NaNoWriMo

hraith — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 14:49:54 GMT

(This month I'm writing Knifeclaw Company II as my NaNoWriMo novel. I'll be posting excerpts here. They will mostly be the excerpts that will be edited out later. Exclusive material! Hope you enjoy it. I can't promise it will all be cohesive or coherent. If anyone has questions, please ask and I'll be happy to summarize the missing elements.)

Nulu walks down a dirt road away from the general store. Behind the store, the docks are busy. A local stares at him as he passes by.

[It's best to be cautious. I don't know what they think of Dshag here.]

Nulu is still hiking. The little port town is out of sight. Scraggly woods surround him on both sides of the dirt road.

[The house may need a security system installed. I won't require many other amenities. Satellite communications reception would be nice, but not necessary.]

[A brief trip to the store every tiramonth for provisions shall suffice.]

Nulu walks beside the river. He looks tired.

[I'm badly out of shape. This shall be a good opportunity to build myself up again.]

Nulu staggers up a hill with rock formations at the top.

[Fuck! How far *pant*... is this fucking *pant*... house?! When I... *pant*... get there... I'm...]

Nulu has reached the top of the hill. He leans against a sapling and looks down. We can only see his slouching back.

[There it is.]

Nulu is at the bottom of the hill, approaching. His eyes are wide with worry. The house is visible thirty meters in front of him. It is squat and box-like, with a wooden frame and walls of plaster that is badly weathered, peeling and chipping. The entranceway is long and low like an igloo's but is no longer intact. Weeds and small shrubs grow from within it or on top of it.

Nulu stands beside the corner of one wing of the house, his hand reaching out to touch the exposed, rotten frame. The roof and walls have partially caved in. The main part of the house is still standing but sags horribly.

Nulu puts his arm up to cover his face as the frame collapses inward, raising a cloud of dust.

Nulu approaches the entranceway, which has no door. He's coughing into his arm, which is still over his face.

[Fuck. Unbelievable.]

Nulu moves away from the house. He drops his pack at the foot of a cluster of trees and stares out at the wilderness worriedly, talking to himself.

Nulu: "The house is unfit for dwelling. Returning so soon is neither an option. I must find alternatives."

Nulu looks around him frenetically.

Nulu: "I shall build my own house with my own hands. I just bought 5.3 acres of raw materials."

Nulu examines a tree trunk.

Nulu: "My ancestors built homes out of rocks and wood in the forsaken wilderness. I can too."

Nulu: "With no modern tools... it can be done. It was done for thousands of generations."

Nulu leans a fallen branch against a tree growing out of the rocky hillside.

Nulu: "Basic... ugh! Shelter. 'S all I need. Whew."

Nulu huddles in his completed lean-to. He cups a piece of dried meat in his hands and stares out into the twilight.

[This experience shall be beneficial. City life coddles me.]

[I'll need a thicker coat. And more provisions. I must learn to hunt.]

[And to build makeshift tools from stones.]

[I shall do it all myself.]

[I cannot return. Not yet.]

[It's cold.]

Nighttime. It's pitch black. Nulu is still sitting there in his lean-to made of branches and leaves.

[I wish I could sleep.]

[This cold should not bother me. I'm biologically adapted to prefer temperate climes over tropical.]

[Kuthy's oppressive heat is merely more familiar, not more comfortable.]

[Nul, Kuthy, whatever. So I think of the city by its Secularist name. I'm military. Most of the military is Secularist.]

[Doesn't make me a traitor.]

[Maybe I'll change my name to Kuthyu. Then they may call me a traitor!]

[Only because it would further anger Raohaa. There are many Dshag named Kuthyu. Only recently did my community leaders choose to return to its ancient name. Just for show, but I went along with it. Now I'm stuck with it. Whenever someone hears that my name is Nulu, it reminds them of the Second Dshagu Empire, and how we Dshag refuse to let go of our glory days although it's been three hundred years since our empire fell.]

[We'll get it back; that's the hope that keeps us buoyant. We shall rise again as warriors and retake the land. The Third Dshagu Empire – that's the quarry our hearts all hunt in secret.]

[While we go about our mundane lives, work hard at our crafts and practice our rituals...]

[It's a stupid dream, borne out by stupid individuals. I am one. Or rather, I was.]

[Now I'm a fat, lonely drunk, younger than I ought to be because of all that space travel, but still too old.]

[A fat, lonely drunk who owns the uninhabitable remains of a house in the middle of a remote fishing community. When Captain Hraith sees this, he'll have a good laugh.]

[I miss Ansìl. She would have laughed too. Then she would have helped me rebuild it. I suppose I must find a way to rebuild it myself. Tomorrow I'll explore my planning options. Something simple is my best bet. A domed house for one. In the meantime, I can purchase a tent.]

[This new sense of hope is quite unexpected, but however I came about it, it's what I need. I might be able to make this work. Maybe in time the edge will fade from my loneliness and I will end up enjoying the solitude. I will build my house with my own hands and take pride in my accomplishment. I will live in peace, and the memory of Ansìl and my unborn daughter will grace me instead of haunt me. I will relax and get some sleep. I will relax and get some sleep.]

NaNoWriMo

hraith — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 22:33:18 GMT

This November I'll be writing Knifeclaw Company: Liberty, all about LT Nulu's adventures after he receives my honorate. Some of it will be posted here. I can't say what yet; it might be less about Nulu and more about his son ~~Rocketman~~ ~~Vigilance~~ Eq-yliy Zhiga.

Whatever his name is.

That kid has more names than I do.

SPC Kruùgh Shan

hraith — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 01:28:23 GMT

I called Kruùgh today for a status report on his condition. SPC Kruùgh lives in Abundance, a dying mining town way up north in Icicle Land. He says the weather up there is tolerable, and if that's his opinion, he's welcome to it. Yes, I realize that Abundance isn't much farther north than the Middlelands, where the species first evolved, and that physiologically we're well-suited to the cold weather. And there's something to be said for summer days that don't boil your blood. But when it comes to spending half the year trudging through snow, no thanks - I'll take a pass.

"How are you?" I asked my apprentice, hoping for the gung-ho energy he'd exhibited on the flight home.

"I'm all right," he sighed.

"Are you healing?" I asked. "Are you growing back like the Ren promised?"

"No, sir," said Kruùgh. "Not exactly."

"What?!" I was a little angry to hear that. "Why the hell not? Ambassador Cheng made a big point of how the salve stuff they spread all over your injuries would make your flesh regenerate to the way it was. Why isn't it? Can the doctors tell you?"

"No, sir. All they tell me is that they need an explanation of the treatment the aliens gave me. I refuse to say a word, as ordered, but they keep insisting. We end up going around in circles. They took a thousand tissue samples, but then they come back and tell me there's no reason to believe my eye and fur will grow back. They say I've been lied to."

"That could be the case," I remarked. I hate to believe it. Cheng may be an alien, but I found him very convincing. "I'm sorry to hold you to confidence if it interferes with your treatment, but there's nothing I can do. The order comes straight from the top."

(And the top brass don't care if my apprentice loses an eye because of those orders of confidence! What's one kid's health compared to national security? Fuck 'em.)

"My skin grew back," Kruùgh added. "It's uncanny. It's not like burn scars at all. It's more like normal skin, as if my fur fell out and that's it."

"Well, that's good," I said.

Kruùgh hesitated. "I guess, sir. It's just that... well... I look like my fur fell out. People keep asking me if I'm diseased or something. And that's not the worst part."

"What's the worst part?" I asked.

"You know the eye I lost?"

"Yes, Nav; what of it? Is it growing back at all?"

"No, sir," Kruùgh said. "It's gone. There's just smooth skin where it used to be."

I couldn't begin to imagine what Kruùgh's self-description looked like, and I was too disturbed by the prospect to try. His tone of voice indicated he did not like his new appearance, and that was enough for me. "Still," I said, "it's better than being dead, right?"

"I guess, sir," he sighed, sounding unconvinced.

"It's not?"

"Well, sir, I was really hoping for my eye back, but I understand that was too much to hope for. I just wish my injuries weren't so weird. Sir, I look really, really weird."

"So what? Nobody's going to look at you anyway," I assured him. "You smell the same, right? You can function well? The only important question is whether you can serve. I spoke to a medical officer and she said that as long as you pass the physical, you're cleared to serve. The military doesn't count your sensory organs as long as what you've got works."

"They issued me a mask," Kruùgh informed me. "I'm required to wear it at all times while on duty, for my own protection. I guess that's a good sign. My doctors expect me to pass."

"Yeah!" I agreed. "It's all going to work out. We'll have you aboard before you know it. Just a momentary setback."

"Yes, sir," Kruùgh said.

"You know," I remarked, "I don't understand this new attitude of yours. When it looked like you were going to die, you were obsessed about continuing your career. Now that your career is a sure thing, you're moaning and groaning like you're having second thoughts. What gives, Nav?"

"It's... hard."

"Hard?" I exclaimed. "What, getting half your upper body blown off in a blast of chemical coolant, surviving an alien infirmary, and recovering just enough to function again is hard? Who woulda thunk? Kid, military service is hard. Some have it harder than others. I know you were a prodigy when you enlisted - my buddies at the academy just about exploded when they learned you were looking to serve on a gunship when you could've had any assignment you wanted. I know all about your shining reputation - we higher-ups talk to each other, you know. You haven't lost any of that talent. You're not going to fucking throw it all away because suddenly you're ugly - are you?"

Kruùgh laughed. "No sir! Thank you, sir. I'm not just ugly - you have to see me to really get it, I think, sir - but it's ridiculous for me to dwell on it. I deserved a good mocking. I won't let you down anymore, Captain."

I wish I were that clever. If I'd said the right thing to get the kid thinking positively again, it was pure random chance.

"Good," I said. "Besides, the military is the perfect path for funny-looking people. There aren't a lot of romantic prospects in space, no matter what you look like."

"Good point, sir," Kruùgh replied.

"Now you take care of yourself and stay focused," I ordered him. "Contact me any time for any reason; got it? And keep me updated on your progress. I need to know how my navigator's doing."

"Yes, sir!" he said, and we broke the connection.

Now I wonder what he looks like. It's been bugging me all day. Normally, a person's visual appearance never concerns me. If he's fit, he serves. If he's competent, I keep him. If he's ugly, who cares? Hell, Maihi looks like a caveman and I've never thought much of it. If he smells bad, that's different, but visual appearance is inconsequential as a rule.

But Kruùgh seems to think his condition transcends that. It's a very big deal to him. How weird does one have to look in order to get so upset about it?

Dshagu opinions are incomprehensible

hraith — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 21:52:37 GMT

I hadn't heard from Nulu in a while, so I called him up. I like to keep tabs on my crew during liberty. Since Nulu lives right here in Kuthy, we see each other frequently as well. He didn't answer, so I left a message suggesting lunch and then curled up for a nap.

At around midday Nulu showed up at my apartment. He smelled of both fresh and stale alcohol, but his gait was steady, so I didn't take him to task for it.

"Come in," I invited. "I wasn't expecting you to just show up. You should've messaged me back. We could have met down by your neighborhood."

I live in a high-rise apartment complex just off-base; it's filled with officers' families and other well-to-do sorts. While it's not the unsafest place for a Dshag to go walking alone while sodden, we're not entirely Dshag-friendly and crime-free, either. Especially with this controversy Nulu and I have started.

Nulu merely grunted. "It's no trouble, sir. Besides, sir, I needed the walk."

"Yes, but..." I tried to phrase it delicately as I sat down on the daybed under my bay window. "Lieutenant, there's something you should be aware of. We appear to have started a... thing."

Nulu remained standing, not quite at attention but not at ease either, and smirked. He may also have chuckled. "Oh, that," he said. "You needn't worry, sir."

I was mildly surprised to learn that he knew about the public outcry already, but I probably shouldn't have been. Nulu always seems to stay well-informed. I bet it's his brother's doing. Raohaa seems like the kind of guy who has his ear to the ground at all times. I bet all the other Dshag in the ghetto run up to him to share the latest news just to win his favor. Raohaa is definitely a guy worth befriending, if you're a Dshag.

"You might not have heard the worst of it yet," I told him. "People are dragging out that old conspiracy theory rumor again. They think I've empowered you to stage a revolution and start the Third Dshagu Empire. They're calling for the government to crack down on your rights. I was expecting some controversy, but not a political backlash. The government itself seems indecisive, but that might just mean it could choose either way."

"Captain," Nulu said, "With all due respect - so what?"

"This could be serious," I insisted.

"Sir, the belief that we're beholden to the secularist government is simply untrue. The Dshag are effectively self-sovereign. Whatever rights the government plans to take away, we shall ignore the process and continue living as we do. And then what shall it do? Force us to take notice? That would not be a retraction of rights; that would be terrorism. In the current political climate, I hardly think terrorism will fly. Therefore the best course of action is to allow secularists to shoot their mouths off until they forget what they're shouting about. Sir."

It took me a moment to digest this. "So you're a separatist?" I wondered. I know Raohaa is a separatist. He's so separatist he thinks Nulu shouldn't even speak to us secularists, never mind serve under us. But Nulu, having joined the North Continental Union military, is the polar opposite of Raohaa. Isn't he? How can you be a separatist if you're serving in the same entity you want to be separate from?

"I am merely stating a fact, sir," Nulu said. "My personal wishes for the future do not factor in."

"So you don't want separatism," I remarked with more confidence.

Nulu just shrugged.

"Well," I asked, "the conspiracy theory, at least, is still false, right?"

"More or less, sir," said Nulu.

"What does that mean?"

"Well, sir, it means we choose to focus on our livelihoods and our families. There is no secret cabal plotting a coup, if that's what you're wondering. However, if an opportunity arises that will allow us to reclaim our former power, we shall take it. Why would we not, sir? Any man or tribe will choose a dominant status if given the opportunity."

"And if the Dshag do get that opportunity," I asked, "will you be merciless and vengeful?"

Nulu shrugged again. "That depends on many factors, sir," he said.

"Like what?" I pressed. He was stating all this with a straight face, but I couldn't tell exactly how serious he was. It's difficult to detect sarcasm or mirth in that thick accent of his, with all those soft, rounded vowels and the clipped hard consonants. His tone of voice always sounds more appropriate for soothing a nervous hew than for engaging in snark. Even when he's yelling - Nulu can really yell, too. You wouldn't think a guy could yell out rounded vowels with any efficacy, but he does.

His use of formal language totally throws me off, as well. Nulu speaks like that because the formal tense of Øenu borrows heavily from Dshagu, so those are the words he's most familiar with. In his opinion, he's speaking mixed-language slang. But to a secularist, it sounds like he's addressing the head of state.

At this point, however, I decided to drop it. I was fully awake by then, and quite hungry. "I promised food," I remarked.

"You did, sir," Nulu agreed.

I realized I had nothing ready to eat inside my apartment. "Is it all right with you if we go downstairs to the building cafeteria?" I asked him. "My treat."

"Yes, sir," Nulu agreed.

He's very agreeable, as a rule.

Popular opinion does not favor Nulu

hraith — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 04:54:24 GMT

This morning, before the heat got oppressive, I took a stroll down to the Ocean Park. I passed by the common oratory platform there - that's the soapbox from which anyone can speak. It's usually hit-or-miss; sometimes you get some interesting speeches, and sometimes it's just some schmuck prattling on about his own pet peeves.

This moron's speech went like so:

"We're risking a return to the Dshagu Empire, and all the brutality our grandparents suffered under it! If that happens, do you know who's to blame? The military! Our own military, which is supposed to exist to keep us safe from our enemies, is now welcoming our enemy into its ranks!

"The rumors of a conspiracy are true! The Dshag are right now infiltrating the military. They're courting the commanding officers, winning accolades. This Dshag, Nulu Tchaoshou, receiving an honorate is just a hint of what they're accomplishing. Soon they'll get promoted into command positions. Then they'll enter politics, and they'll grant themselves rights while restricting the rights of the rest of us! No matter what tribe you are from, no matter if you are pureblood, halfblood, or secularist! You are responsible for keeping the Dshag out of power! I am responsible!

"We all must shout out and say NO to these little favors! No matter how trivial they may seem, when you consider each one alone. You may be asking yourself, what's the big deal? So a starcaptain gave his honorate to a Dshag on his crew. You may say to yourself, we've been hearing about conspiracy theories for years and nothing's ever come of it. How can the Dshag return to power? They're all poor! They keep to themselves! They're politically weak!

"But remember, friends, that that's how it happened last time. After the First Dshagu Empire crumbled, our ancestors crushed them. But then they grew complacent. And they were unprepared when the Dshag rose up and conquered them again.

"Then it was 300 long years of suffering and oppression. They took everything we'd built - our space technology, our mines, our place in the galactic community - they took it all for themselves and treated our ancestors like slaves. Like animals!

"They didn't make the same mistake and grow complacent. When our grandparents rose against them, they fought us down. When we slew their women and girl children, some call that an atrocity, but it was NECESSARY! The Dshag would've killed us all if we hadn't killed them first!

"Do we want that to happen all over again? The brutality, the genocide, the bloodshed? The Dshag are conspiring a new rise to power, and they are not merciful; they are vengeful. Instead of giving to them, we should be taking more away. If we do not, if we grow complacent, they will take it from us! If we give and give, then ultimately we will give them our lives, and the lives of our children."

I was tempted to heckle him, but I kept my mouth shut. He had a great deal of audience support. It wouldn't have done any good.

However, afterwards I headed down to the Capitol building to listen to what the state councillors had to say. A councillor was on the stand when I arrived, and she orated for at least an hour about a variety of topics without touching upon Dshagu rights at all.

During a lull, I spoke up and asked her, "What are your feelings on Dshag receiving honorates?"

"I disapprove," she started, "On a personal level at least, but this is a very personal issue. I'm sure the starcaptain who..."

Then she paused and sniffed at me, and asked, "Aren't you him? Are you Captain Hraith Odùa gü Schaig?"

"Gü Koschà," I added. The last part of my name is still new, so people will probably be forgetting to include it for a while yet.

"You're trying to bait me!" she accused.

"Not at all," I assured her. "I'm genuinely interested in your opinion. I've recently learned my honorate stirred up more furor than expected."

Unfortunately, by that time she could no longer hear me over the other voices in the audience. When it became clear she was changing topics, I gave up and left. Several people growled at me or bumped me rudely as I exited the crowd, but there was otherwise no trouble.

I do hope Nulu has been sheltered from this type of flak, but it seems unlikely.

A tough day on planet Origin

hraith — Thu, 29 May 2008 00:16:27 GMT

I dropped by the doctor's house to get a checkup. I'm required to go every week until I get cleared. This was not my lucky week.

"Your muscle tone is still very poor," she said. "You're taking an abnormally long time to recuperate. How long were you in space?"

"A long time," I replied. The exact length of time is confidential, as per ADM Koschá. There's a reason assigning two tours in a row with no rest is illegal. Fortunately for the Admiral, it was 'voluntary' on my part. He made sure of that.

"Exercise more," she said. "That's all I can tell you."

I agreed to. That's not an easily accomplished task, however. With degraded muscles, exercise isn't always easy. I eat right - I spend the extra money on the highest quality meats. But I'm still too weak for sports, hunting, or essentially any physical activity I actually enjoy. Nulu goes out and walks every day, but it's sweltering out. Nobody sane walks all day in the summer.

My doctor is very attractive, even when she's exasperated. Afterwards I paid a visit to My Lady. She was in fine form today, as was I, but our sweet encounter ended on a sour note.

"I'm going to have to give you up, Captain," she sighed as we began cleaning ourselves after we'd finished. "The age difference is too great."

"Nonsense," I argued. "I'm 58 years old!"

"No, sir, I'm 58 years old," she said. "Well, 57. You are barely forty."

"Legally it doesn't matter," I reminded her. "The year I was born counts for all."

"Physically," she said, "it does matter. You have an enviable position, Captain. You have the esteem of your legal years and the vigor of your physical years. If you get deployed again and return even further behind in age, I'm going to demand that you switch to one of the younger women."

"I don't trust them," I growled. "They're sloppy."

"Captain, I assure you you'll be pleased. The 'young' girls of a few years ago aren't that young anymore."

"They're giggly," I complained. "I can't stand giggly girls."

My Lady insisted. "Not the experienced ladies. We'll match you with someone closer to your own age. Someone much like me, just... sprier."

That was my day. I frustrated my doctor and got rejected by my whore. It was a relief to return to my apartment where there was no one to bother me with annoying reactions and opinions. Maggan's only opinions are "Feed me!" and "Pay attention to me!"

I almost can't believe it. Twenty years I've been seeing that woman. Now she just drops me like it's nothing. Seems like everyone is trying to pressure me to quit space travel. Yes, I know it's bad for me to continue! I've reached my limit physically and socially.

But I can't quit. I can't bear to imagine myself grounded for the rest of my life. I'll outlast a hundred prostitutes before I relinquish Vigilance. That ship is my home. Don't they understand? My home! I'll give up my home when I'm dead.

Captain's Blog revisited

hraith — Sun, 25 May 2008 16:49:55 GMT

It's been months since I updated this blog.

I've been caught in the throes of inertia since LT Nulu's naming celebration. There has honestly been nothing to talk about.

Perhaps if I vow to revive this journal, that will motivate me to get off my haunches and accomplish something of note.

This happens every time I go on liberty. Each time, I intend to do better, and each time, I fail. This is my turning point. This time I'll go out and live life as a surface dweller.

Dream (from drabblemania)

hraith — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 03:37:42 GMT

My brother forbade me to enter the house if I'd been drinking. His eldest daughter told me the opposite: "If you must drink, stay home. The streets are too full of predators."

She's wrong. I'm in no danger. Inebriation doesn't prevent me from defending myself. Three nights ago when a group of young thugs approached me, I waited until they were close and then I reached up in a flash and raked one boy's belly clean in half, sending him shrieking and fleeing with his companions close behind. None can touch me, no matter how thick the haze.

Not sure if I remember the incident quite accurately, however. No evidence exists to back it up. If there was blood on my claws, it's gone now. Other events are harder to deny - like the time I woke up missing my shoes, credit key, and all ten earrings.

What the hell some guy off the street wants with ten steel earrings escapes me. Eh. It's of no consequence. Yet my niece obsesses over the idiotic idea that I was mugged.

I'm in no danger. I can take care of myself. It's what I was trained for.

Flashback - Fsau joins Knifeclaw Company

hraith — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 04:41:14 GMT

For a prompt on writers_almanac. Actually two prompts: a character's embarrassing moment and a character's introduction to the story. I went for Fsau's intro to the crew rather than to the story itself. In the book, he first appears by attending Hraith's party. Not too exciting.

A loose plot thread! Argh!

hraith — Sat, 18 Aug 2007 19:30:44 GMT

Where do the humans go during the climax? And how? And why? I have to figure this out.

OOC: A transitional period for Knifeclaw Company

hraith — Thu, 12 Jul 2007 11:54:45 GMT

You all may have noticed that I've been neglecting this journal. The Knifeclaw Company script is currently being critiqued by a friend, and when she's done I'll make changes and send Draft 2 to my next critiquer. I could still use more volunteers. It's only 64 pages but my needs are demanding - I require someone with a very strong sense of story, someone who can identify loose ends that need to be tied up. Someone who knows their way around fiction but isn't limited by genre formulas. Military service, past or present, is a plus, but not crucial.

I want to continue drawing worldbuilding studies, but my job and life's other distractions keep pulling me in other directions. I'll get around to it when I can. It's hard to motivate myself to work on Øenu culture while the script is in the critiquing process, but I should try.

Fortunately, I shall start to draw the comic book itself fairly soon. I hope I'm prepared for all that work.

Patience - Captain Hraith Odùa gü Schaig (from drabblemania)

hraith — Wed, 06 Jun 2007 00:05:25 GMT

My parents named me 'Odùa' by the time I was two years old. The reason, they used to say, was that I was extraordinarily patient for a small child, even after my sister was born. Beyond that, their rationale eludes me. The notorious Janaj Odùa, the last person ever to receive capital punishment, had already wiped the name from society. Instead, parents began to choose names like 'Tîngh' (stoic) or 'Ainhaa' (one who lies in wait) or, like Fsau's parents did, 'Léan' (one who doesn't question).

I've refused to go by 'Odùa' for as long as I can remember. At school and in the neighborhood, everyone called me 'Hraith'. My sister called me by various nicknames unless she was teasing me; in general, the only use anyone had for my given name was as a taunt. "Odùa the traitor!" they used to call me. In sports I'd be told, "We don't want an Odùa on our team!" Once, a primary school instructor threatened me by saying, "Remember what happened to the other Odùa."

My parents offered me no defense. They'd only say, "Ignore it. Odùa is a perfectly good name. You should be proud that you're patient." I was probably better described as 'angry' and wished ill on my parents for their choice of name; so much so that when their relationship fell apart, I believed it was my fault. That's BS, of course. Even as my mother and father spouted venom at each other, they both kept up their lame defense of the name 'Odùa'. Our culture is deeply superstitious, and I doubt either of my parents has ever understood the implications of the name they gave me. Put simply, I remind people of the most righteously despised man of the last three centuries. That's quite a burden to place on your own son! My parents addressed this problem by refusing to believe it existed.

Some say that a name is a self-fulfilling prophesy, guided by your own expectations and the expectations of those around you. Obviously, I'm not a traitor; in fact, I strive constantly to prove my loyalty, and therefore I'm probably amongst the most loyal sailors in existence. Perhaps, however, I am still extraordinarily patient. I still hear the tired old remarks: "Odùa like the traitor?" with annoying frequency, and I still respond by ignoring it. Some of my patience may be a personality trait, but surely some of it was learned.

Huh. Now I wonder if Fsau speaks up so infrequently because he was discouraged from asking questions as a child.

Memorial Day

hraith — Mon, 28 May 2007 20:46:34 GMT

Dandelion Studios extends gratitude to all who died defending their country. May your memory be cherished and honored, and may your sacrifices lead to a day when there is no longer a need for war.

Grief - Ensign Nulu Tchaoshou (from drabblemania)

hraith — Sat, 19 May 2007 01:31:35 GMT

Hah. What could I possibly have to say about grief?

Sometimes I wonder whether I'd be treated better if people knew I'm grieving. My dealings with Secularist society are limited, but they are necessary on occasion - for example, when I must report to Payroll or Medical upon returning from a mission. Most perceive me as 'just a Dshag' and treat me according to however he feels about being forced to have dealings with a Dshag. Usually they only want to get the business over with so I'll leave. I facilitate this wish as best I can.

If you met me on the street, you'd note my dress, my gait, my scent, my accent, and conclude with satisfaction that my ethnicity is all you need to know about me. Am I correct? You wouldn't bother wondering what happened to my wife and child, or concern yourself with my living arrangements or my family relations. You wouldn't speculate on my life history or my worries for the future. All of that is intangible and therefore irrelevant. And if it's irrelevant, it need not even exist. If you learned how my wife died, you'd express surprise, because a minute ago you'd been certain that I had no life beyond what you could immediately sense. No stories of my own. No substance.

Naturally, very few people I meet learn how my wife died. I don't tell them. Anyone who must know knows already. I may, at times, try to instill in my closest acquaintances a sense of the effect grief has on me, of how it shapes my perception of and relation to the universe; but if they fail to grasp it, I must accept my failure to communicate. I will not pursue that level, or any level, of understanding from strangers.

I define myself by my grief, and no one else does. The urge to tell people I'm grieving comes from a desire to ease the heavy feeling of alienation it causes. I want to believe that if I showed somebody the real me, I could make a connection with them somehow. And the alienation would be lifted.

Of course it doesn't work like that.

Culture study - women in the military

hraith — Wed, 25 Apr 2007 11:29:27 GMT

Maihi narrates this one. I don't think he quite understands he's addressing aliens. :)

Artist's notes:

*I did this at work yesterday. It's partially inked, partially penned, and the rest is pencil. Sorry about that. I ran out of steam.

*That's my only note.

Culture study - hews

hraith — Sun, 15 Apr 2007 00:01:49 GMT

Artist's notes:

*It's text-heavy. Yeah. But what pictures there are have hews!

*I didn't mention the spring-loaded quality of the tail, but you'll get to see them leaping in the comic book.

*Ditto for several other nifty hew qualities. Read the book (when it's done, of course).

*We believe you, Hraith. Uh-huh. Suuuure we do.

Culture study - computers

hraith — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 01:32:49 GMT

Artist's notes:

*This one was really fun to draw. I hope you like it.

*I don't have any programming skills. I figure this is just as well, as I'd have to forget them all and invent new ones if I did.

*That's Fsau and Voù in the top picture. Everyone else on the page is anonymous.

*Check out that claw! I figure, with claws like those, pinpoint touch pads would be a no-brainer.

Culture study - drums

hraith — Mon, 09 Apr 2007 20:07:26 GMT

Additional notes:

*Ucht-alau is going to be the death of many pens. I can see it coming. But it's a black and white comic about multicolored characters, and they do come in black, so I have no excuse not to make one member of Knifeclaw Company black.

*Don't ask me why the anonymous drummer is also black. Too much time on my hands.

*This isn't as much of a 'doodle' as I'd intended. I try too hard. But I left some pencil lines in when I scanned it - maybe that will give it a more doodly feel. :)

*I made up a whole bunch of NCU fashion trends and now I'm hardly using any of them. Even Kruùgh's long-sleeved shirt yesterday was a bit of a fashion faux pas. But Kruùgh dresses strangely anyhow. He has a lot of scars to cover and he has little fashion sense.

*Women wearing their shirts open is not a fashion faux pas. In fact, Voú would go naked frequently if I let her.

*Today's doodle scene takes place very early in the continuity. You can tell because Kruùgh has no scars.

*I think Hraith was cute when he was young.

*Drawing drumming hands is HARD! You can tell I gave up toward the end there.

Cultural study - Oration

hraith — Sat, 07 Apr 2007 21:09:14 GMT

Artist's note: I'm now done with Zephyr & Reginald: Minions For Hire and now I have to get myself psyched up to work on Knifeclaw Company again. Today's journal-comic-style entry may be the sign of things to come, and/or I may post other types of entries here. I don't know yet. It all depends on inspiration.