Eyes on Me

...help?

quistrepe — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 07:57:39 GMT

Are the Viking legends overused in Final Fantasy VIII fiction? I'm thinking of incorporating some of them into the fic I'm writing. Help would be fantastic, loves! <3

Meeting Love Finding Despair

quistrepe — Mon, 07 May 2007 12:06:32 GMT

Title: Meeting Love, Finding Despair
Chapter: 03.
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Characters: Seifer Almasy, Quistis Trepe, Laguna Loire, Kiros Seagil, Anisa Armanti (OC), Síla Trepe (OC), Luik Leonhart (OC) various other characters will be mentioned at random.

Summary: It's been ten years since the end of the Second Sorceress War. Quistis, during this time, has packed her bags and moved to Esthar. Seifer was imprisoned, and has recently been released.
Feedback: Would be absolutely adored ♥ So would reviews and critique!
Thanks go to both Jess (altol) and Liz (vampirestarcat) for the use of ideas and characters.

Meeting Love, Finding Despair
By Dragonbait

Chapter Three

At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since.
-- Salvador Dali

«------------------------»•«-------------------»

Light softly filtered in through the white cotton curtains. It was early morning—no, it was fairly late as far as the two figures entwined together in the sheets were concerned. Clothes were strewn about the room as though they’d been flung haphazardly in a fit of passion. As the light hit their eyes, one of the figures stirred, and groggily, she sat up. Hissing in annoyance, she prodded Kiros in the side. The man stirred, mumbled something in his sleep and rolled over and went back to slumbering soundly, unaware of the growing annoyance of his bedfellow. Anisa yanked the flat sheet off Kiros, leaving the man beautifully naked and completely asleep. In the morning light, Kiros’ beauty was something that made her catch her breath for mere seconds, before she wrapped the sheet around herself, quickly tidying up the suite before housekeeping came around to do the morning rounds.

“Kiros,” she said, prodding him gently, and was rewarded with a grunt. “Kiros!” Her voice was urgent now, and to her great relief, he opened his eyes with a groan. She put one hand on her hip in exasperation. “You need to leave… it’s not seemly that we should be seen together by staff—you know how they gossip.”

Kiros sat up in bed, now fully awake. Anisa had a point, he had to admit. “But it’s not their business who shares a bed or who’s seen with who, surely,” he said lazily, pointing that out with a little laugh. Anisa glared at him, and he held up a placatory hand. “All right, say we’re seen together by the staff… what’re they going to do about it? Call the media and alert them to the fact that the president of Timber is sleeping with the president of Esthar’s aide?” Laughing slightly at the look on Anisa’s face, Kiros scrambled off the bed, hastily searching for his underwear. Once he’d retrieved his outfit, Kiros left the room with a backwards glance at the incredibly beautiful woman he’d spent the night with.

«------------------------»•«-----------------»

Grey eyes scanned the perimeter of the Estharian Presidential Palace. It’d been a while since the man had been to Esthar, let alone the palace. When he had been younger, he’d known Loire well—had been a brother-in-arms with him during the first Sorceress War back when both of them had been young and foolish. Now both of them were old men. Time had worn its ravages on the man’s face, the lines deep and his hair almost gone. His bones ached as he moved, but he was grateful for the years he’d had as a spry young lad. Luik Leonhart gripped the handle of his walking stick, moving towards the front gate of the palace. Laguna expected him.

To the left of him, he could see construction going on—the repairs, presumably, of the O-Lab. The last time Luik had been in Esthar, some five months previously, parts of the Odine Laboratories had been destroyed by a combination of asbestos and fire. Fatal. Utterly fatal—but thankfully there’d only been two or so people in there at the time. He walked slowly—there was no need to hurry. When one reached his age, there was no need to hurry. He took in the surrounds, glancing at the various cafés that’d sprung up over the years. Stellar, for instance, was renowned for it’s beautiful coffees and very nice lunches. High quality food, and Luik was a man who enjoyed his food. Though not a portly man, by any means, Luik was slightly overweight, a result that came more from lack of exercise than diet.

Finally reaching the long boulevard that led to the Presidential Palace’s parliamentary rooms, Luik gave a smile to one of the guards standing on duty. The guards’ clothes, when he’d first chanced across them some long years ago, had seemed too flashy, too obscenely bright. Now of course, he understood the reasoning behind such things. By night, Esthar was a city of silence, the lights on the vehicles dimmed in passing, the reflective uniforms of the soldiers that guarded the palace, and indeed, Esthar from the world, were an utter godsend. It wasn’t quiet today, though—the warm sun shining high overhead as Luik ambled down the passageway that led into Laguna’s offices. He knew he’d be waiting for him—they’d had the appointment set in stone for months on end. Brothers in law, and yet not. Laguna had never officially married his sister, Raine, the fact that his surname graced the simple plaque on the hill just outside Winhill made it all the more intricate. Raine and Laguna—now there had been a couple who were as in love with one another as the day was in love with night—incomplete without each other, yet alone and destined to be solitary as the earth spun on its axis.

“I’m here to see Loire,” he told the young lass sitting at a desk just outside the office where his friend was ensconced. The young woman looked up at him, barely nodding to his announcement. “He’s expecting me,” he continued with a touch of asperity in his otherwise pleasant voice.

The woman nodded distractedly, before turning back to her device that she used to send messages to her Estharian socialite friends. “Yeah?” she said as she loudly popped the gum she was chewing on. Luik looked thoroughly unimpressed, and made a mental note to get this girl some proper secretarial training or be fired. The woman’s name, Luik noted, was Hollis.

“Luik Leonhart is here to see Laguna,” he said, with emphasis on Laguna’s first name. Whoever this girl was, she wasn’t a very good employee, and Luik was starting to wonder who had hired her when she clearly wasn’t fit for such a job. Suddenly, a memory flashed through his mind of his sister, dealing the tarot cards and doing a reading. Pushing the memory to the back of his mind, Luik focussed on the impertinent secretary he was dealing with—if he could even call her one, at that.

“Ohhh,” her voice resonated with faux-recognition, “I’ll just buzz you through.” And she was as good as her word. Luik shook his head, annoyed. That was just a plain farce, he thought, a very annoying farce, but farce it was. Finally he got away and into Laguna’s office, setting himself down on one of the comfortable, high-backed suede covered chairs. It was only a few moments afterwards that he realised Laguna was nowhere to be found. It didn’t alarm him—the man was prone to absentmindedness anyway. After a few minutes, he heard the door open with the mechanic whir of an automatic door.

«------------------------»•«-----------------»

It was, as Quistis thought, just as she remembered. The dim familiar room where she’d spent time away from the world after moving to Esthar was just that. Dim. Quiet. There was solitude. She needed it. The serenity of the room was good—allowed her to get her thoughts in order. She wasn’t sure what to do about the situation with Seifer—it was complicated enough, with him having been released from prison mere weeks ago and given asylum in Esthar. Though she didn’t like to admit it, she hoped he was going to stay. She admitted to herself, as much as she’d admit to anyone, that she’d missed him.

She sometimes wished that she could hate him. It’d make things a lot easier, and definitely less complicated. But she didn’t. She couldn’t hate him. No, if anything, she pitied him, and Hyne knew, pity was worse than hate. She breathed deeply through her nose, held it for a moment, and then exhaled. Standing up, she made her way through the dimness of the room until she found the smooth, metal exterior of her whip’s case. She’d not touched it in years, yet she remembered well the day she’d got it. It’d been the day of that dreadful battle against Seifer in the Lunatic Pandora. She closed her eyes, fingers finding the clasps from memory as she unlocked the case.

Springtime. Quistis had been eight years old. Playing in the flowers that sprung from the newly-green earth after the cold winter. There’d been shouting coming from the orphanage, the yells and screams of Seifer as he was taken away from everything he knew. The only mother he knew, and indeed, any of them knew, was parting with one of her children. Quistis, running only to see the old, rusty truck drive away in a cloud of red dust, the hollering of the young boy as he screamed to let him out—and then Quistis awoke. She’d fallen asleep, it seemed, in the dark room, hands still clutched around the case of her long-disused weapon.

When she’d left Garden, she’d left in the belief that words were the way forwards, not violence. It was the reason she’d been drawn to Esthar, to the way of the political struggle there—one that’d existed for longer than she’d been alive. Since the era of peace, before the struggle against Adel, Esthar had been a city ruled by an ancient monarchy. Such things were not easily destroyed unless some calamity of nature occurred. Quistis had been awestruck by some of the ancient buildings that ran along the outskirts of the grand city. Tear’s Point, she was sure, had once been a part of the ancient race that once inhabited Esthar—and given that there indeed was evidence that the Cetra-built shelters such as Garden—it wasn’t an impossible step in her logic.

The miasma of her memory made it uncertain to her whether it was something she’d learnt, or something she’d known already. There were times when Quistis felt as if there was a veil hanging between what she knew was in her memory, and the memories that were long before the use of the GFs, which perpetrated a memory loss. How she would give to have those memories back, memories which she was certain would give her peace. She stood shakily, and left the room, leaving Save the Queen in its case. She knew then and there that she’d never snap a whip again, nor brandish it in battle to save a comrade or herself.

It was how Seifer found her a few hours later, staring out over the balcony. He crept up behind her, a soft smirk on his face. It was strange, he reflected, what ten years could do. “Quistis,” he spoke her name softly, and watched as she turned. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Blue eyes wide, face flushed, lips pink and hair askew, it seemed to Seifer that she’d been caught in that moment where her shields and guard was completely down. It was something he wasn’t used to seeing—the vulnerability that lay lurking beneath the façade of coolness and the outer perception of who she was. Here was someone he’d ridiculed, given a hard time, and yet she had defended him when nobody else had. He remembered the trial probably more vividly than she would ever imagine, and that hell, that horrible place known as the D-District Prison where he’d once tortured Squall, it had kept him sane in its knowledge that someone did care.

“Seifer,” Quistis responded, after what seemed like minutes. “What— what’re you doing here?” she enquired hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was waiting for a return of the old Seifer, harsh, abrupt, abrasive, the one who was an arrogant berk and yet she knew he was far more than that. She resumed looking out over the vast expanse of Esthar City, seeing the lights coming on as the sun slowly dipped behind the horizon, coating the city in one final glorious orange light. It was amazing, the heat of the day, and then the chill of winter in the evening. She supposed it was normal, given the desert-like plateau that spread so far in both directions, north towards the frozen tundra of Trabia and Shumi, to the south, where the vast barren Cetra plains spread for miles. The chill of the wind from the north caused her to shiver, and Seifer, she realised, was warm.

She didn’t understand the impulses that drove her to lean against his shoulder—the impulses that lead her to take a foolish step in the dark. She wasn’t even sure if it was out of isolated loneliness that she wrapped her arms around him, rested her head against his solid chest. She would never understand what had happened in those few infinitely small minutes to make her do it. Only when he wrapped his arms around her, did she feel safe. Quistis felt safe in Seifer’s arms—something that would never be explained in any rational words.

«------------------------»•«-----------------»

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

- Tennyson, “Locksley Hall”

«------------------------»•«-----------------»

For months after the fact, the people of Esthar and indeed, the world, would shake their heads and wonder how one of the most respected women in global politics had gotten involved with the man that many saw as a traitor and a puppet to an evil sorceress. There was no explanation except the most simple, love. The tabloids, including one particularly vicious gossip columnist, labelled the relationship as a farce, and prophesied it to end badly. In those uncertain months shortly after the Second War, people had been eloping left and right, and much to the consternation of the general public, Commander Leonhart had married Sorceress Rinoa Heartilly, a match frowned upon—fear of another war with a sorceress spurring the vicious rumours. But oblivious they were, happy in love and in their eyes, the public was ignorant. The tabloids, doing their part, tried their hardest to find the dirty secrets of Quistis Trepe, but found none.

«------------------------»•«-----------------»

It was winter in Esthar. What passed for winter, at least. To the cities in the west, Esthar seemed like summer, with the heat during the day being warmer than what it was in their homes. Although there was the smallest bit of frost on the ground, it quickly vanished in the early parts of the morning before the midday sun beat down. Kiros and Anisa, Quistis, Laguna, Luik Leonhart and several other dignitaries were working hard on negotiations between Timber, Esthar and the Trabian Consul (comprised of four different people in various parts of the mostly barren Trabia settlement), and an agreement that would solidify the not-so-solid agreement that Esthar would help rebuild sections of the various areas that needed it.

“If I may be so bold as to cross the floor,” a dignitary began with a ponderous expression etched on their face, “I would like to yield the power to the Trabian Consul-General.” The silence that followed that proclamation was heavy, and Quistis bit her lip, looking across at Anisa, then towards Laguna and Kiros. She leaned forwards, then looked sharply at the dignitary, her gaze icy.

“Be as that may, Mr Nazario, but it’s not entirely up to you to decide who wields power in this situation,” she said, watching as Tacito Nazario sputtered, his face turning a rather violent shade of puce. “I would like to remind all of us in the negotiation process that everyone has an equal voice, and an equal vote,” she continued, determined to stop what she was sure was going to become a shouting match between Mr Nazario and Ms Armanti. She knew tension ran high between Timber and Trabia, had known it during her time as president. It had been something small, something forgotten by most of the world in recent history, overshadowed by the first and second wars, that had caused an ancient feud between two otherwise unconnected countries. Nobody quite understood how the feud had begun.

But it had, and Quistis, along with everybody in the meeting room, was aware of it. But there was even more tension than they knew. Luik, sage and grey, a veritable wise man with knowledge of the old borders between the areas, spoke. “Ms Trepe raises an excellent point,” he began, nodding at her with his old kind face serene, “For the Consul-General to be given the power, we must ensure that the checks and balances are in place, that should the Consul-General be found to be corrupt, or to be found accepting money for illegal deals, such as the recent Galbadian Arms Acquisition, which, ladies and gentlemen, can be found on page five of your briefing,” he paused, reached over for his glass of water, and took a sip before continuing, “We will not be impressed by such behaviour, and Esthar,” he looked over at Laguna, “Will definitely not be impressed by such a misappropriation of the generosity extended to this project.”

At that, Tacito Nazario looked surly. A scowl crossed his face, and he stood up. “This is an outrage!” he hissed, and stormed out of the room. With Nazario gone, Quistis started giggling uncontrollably—she found the entire situation quite hilarious, as a grown man, in his fifties, was throwing a tantrum like her four-year-old daughter.

“Might I suggest we recess for lunch?” she suggested, trying to stop giggling with all her might. But it was a hard thing to do—the giggles kept coming whenever she met someone’s eye. Standing, Quistis excused herself, walked down the hallway, opened the door of a public restroom and went into a stall where she promptly collapsed into a fit of riotous, cathartic laughter. For her laughter was cathartic, and though not unusual, highly emotional. It’d been such a stressful morning that all she wanted was to get out of the city, but she knew she couldn’t.

«------------------------»•«-----------------»

Seifer Almasy was bored. No, he was more than that, really. Having taken himself to the training rooms, where he’d proceeded to kick the stuffing quite literally out of a punching bag, the training room overseer had banned him from returning. So here he was, in broad daylight, a lit cigarette between his lips, crouched down in the shade of a skyscraper. The thin smoke curled up and around his head, getting into his hair. It was damned uncomfortable, the heat of Esthar in the high summer. Cocking his head to the side as he heard the unmistakeable sound of a gunshot, Seifer dropped his cigarette, gunblade flashing in the sunlight as he rushed towards the scene.

It was the perfect break in monotony that he was after.

From the street, it looked like an ordinary fight; the reality was worse.

A flash of silver, then a dark complexion, hurried past. Seifer felt his heart lurch—it might be Fujin or Raijin there. His loyal posse. A slight, twisted smile came to his lips. Whatever they were doing in Esthar, they hadn’t seen fit to look him up. Of course, he supposed he hadn’t really been all that easily-contactable to begin with.

The next thing Seifer knew, a pair of blue eyes were gazing concernedly at him. The room spun, vertigo hitting him like the proverbial tonne of bricks and mortar, and he blinked, trying to figure out whether the fucking hell the chicobos dancing around his head annoyingly were real or illusionary. Then that voice which he knew so well from years of ignoring it popped into his thoughts, and Seifer scowled.

“—You’ve sustained another scar, Seifer,” the voice said with irritation, coupled with—what was it? Pity? Compassion? Pah! He didn’t need her fucking compassion! But the confusing overwhelming other feelings he’d been nursing for more than the better half of his life—the part that he admitted to ignoring at the best, were coming to the fore again. Like always. He had once dreamed of ripping her prim instructor’s uniform off and having her then and there in her classroom. “—Fortunately, this one doesn’t require disciplinary measures.” Her voice cut into his reminisces of a schoolboy fantasy. He glanced up to see her stern face, mouth set in a grim scowl. It seemed like she was annoyed, though he knew her well enough to figure she wasn’t as annoyed as she appeared.

“Spare me the lecture,” he bit out, gritting his teeth as he felt his forehead twinge with the onslaught of a migraine. Rubbing his scar, Seifer sighed in annoyance when he felt the familiar netting of bandaging webbing across his forehead. “Quistis, aren’t you meant to be in a meeting, anyway?” he frowned as much as pain would allow him to, “What happened?”

Quistis sighed, sinking down into the chair beside his bed. “There was an attack near the Palace. Fortunately, the damage is being repaired as we speak—some new terrorist threat,” she sighed, looking suddenly very young. It was a look Seifer remembered from when they’d been orphans together. She’d been so terrified when they’d brought her in, looking for all the world like a lost soul. Her hand reached out to touch Seifer’s scarring. “There’s no news on who did it—we’re still piecing it together. Tacito Nazario stormed out of the meeting in a huff—he’s the Trabian Consul-General—and Mr Leonhart, Mr Loire and the rest of the members of the diplomatic council dispersed shortly after. Then the blast—I want to know what you were doing at the time,” she said softly, as he reached his hand up to squeeze hers.

What he’d been doing was having a smoke when he heard the gunshot. That was all he remembered. He didn’t remember flying arse over tit after the explosion Quistis had described, nor the frantic attempts made by those who had Curaga junctioned with Full-Life. It wasn’t as drastic as some of the effort he’d seen in the war, and after it. When all was said and done, Full Life magic was the equivalent of being slapped a dozen times in the face with a wet and still wriggling herring. Looking at Quistis, Seifer let out a tired smile. “I was having a smoke, then there was a gunshot. Last thing I remember doing is reaching for Hyperion, hallucinating that I saw Fujin and Raijin, and then blacking out as something hit the back of my skull,” he said, grimacing in pain at how pathetic he sounded, even to himself.

Quistis frowned. She fiddled with her hair, a nervous habit that she’d picked up long ago during her days as a SeeD. Somehow, all of that seemed so far away now—so foreign to her that she’d forgotten the last time she held Save the Queen in her hands. It looked to her that she may have to take up her whip once more, should the group behind the attack today strike again.

«------------------------»•«-----------------»

The swarthy man in the control panel just north of Esthar smiled grimly to himself. Esthar was in for a lot more surprises.

The fun had just begun…

Light on the Water

quistrepe — Mon, 07 May 2007 08:14:50 GMT

This is sort of a companion piece to the rewritten Meeting Love, Finding Despair. It's more a prequel than anything else, though it's more a prequel to the game than the story itself.

I initially started writing this at the end of 2004. In 2005, as I was working on it on the way back home from Sydney on the bus, my laptop crashed, and I lost the epilogue, and varied other parts of the story. I was also heavily influenced by two Joanne Harris novels when I wrote this: Chocolat and Holy Fools. What you're about to read now is the untouched and unedited version of chapter one.

Without further preamble, I present to you: Light on the Water

Light on the Water
by Laura E

Chapter One
Dark Premonitions

I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge
The nightmare I built my own world to escape
-Evanescence, "Imaginary"

-=-=-=-=-=-

Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VIII. Nor do I own Thomas Crichton, who belongs to Jack, and has kindly given me permission to use her character’s name. I own Colum O'Donahue, Daniel Faulkner and Agnes Flannighan, however.

-=-=-=-=-=-

The moon shone sweetly in the sky, its full yellow globe seeming to smile benevolently on the bluffs. Stars twinkled, and the sand grass danced in the summer breeze. Along the shore, the seagulls scavenged for food, scuttling up and down the strip of beach that held bluebottles, jellyfish, and other assorted shellfish and marine life that had been washed up with the tide.

A young woman walked along the beach, her feet bare. They made little marks in the soft, wet sand, as she bent down occasionally to pick up a shell and put it in the basket she carried on her back. The waves lapped gently at her feet; making the hem of the light cotton skirt she wore cling to her legs. Her apparel was not the most sensible getup for walking along the beach at night, yet it was comfortable. She bent down to pick another shell up, placing it into her basket and adjusting the weight of it. Once again, she wondered why she was doing this, and reminded herself that it was for the good of all the townsfolk involved.

Her child trotted beside her, young and happy as usual. She danced along the shore, the waves never seeming to touch her. The child's name was Ellone, named for the mystical goddess that watched over the world, and went by the more common name of Hyne. Ellone was blessed, just like her mother, by the Goddess herself. As Ellone danced along the shore, the gulls took off into the sky, flapping their wings with grace and elegance that only birds possess.

Glancing along the beach, Raine could see that she was approaching the rock pools. Quickly motioning to her daughter, she hurried along to them, hoping to catch some molluscs before the tide washed over the pools once more, burying the creatures and the precious oyster pearls under the sand.

She was lucky this time. The oyster shells were still there. She gathered them up into the Hessian sack that she carried in the basket for the purpose. The shells felt rough, sharp in her hands. But they always did. She'd gathered enough oyster shells to make the little flower arrangements with, as she always did.

Winhill had been a good town to her. They'd welcomed her with open arms. Her, and her little girl, Ellone. They'd come to Winhill almost two or three years earlier, fleeing persecution from Esthar and the uprisings caused by some woman calling herself a Sorceress. She'd been a dancer and a gypsy then, and her name had not been Raine, but Rosline. Her last name however, Leonhart, never changed, for it was a part of her that she'd never wanted to let go of, no matter how many times she'd forged a different identity.

She didn't know why she'd chosen to take her grandmother's name as her own this time. She guessed it had something to do with the guidance the woman had always given her. But whatever the reason, the name seemed to suit her new persona. The Tower, Strength, The Wheel of Fortune. As she laid the cards and read them each night, she'd draw them, looking for guidance when she could.

However, the tide was coming in, and she looked to the horizon to see if Ellone was anywhere in sight. A slight tug at her heart made her feel uncertain, for little Elle possessed a dangerous gift that Adel, if she found out, would send her legions across the countryside and take little Elle away from her. Raine vowed that it would never happen.

As she walked back towards the village, Ellone following her footsteps, she could hear a commotion in the square. Quickly picking Ellone up, she ran with the child, fearing for the safety of the village and the people she had come to love. She could smell the braziers of oil burning long before she could see the men. She heard them long before she saw them, their angry voices cutting like a knife through the tranquillity of the night.

And then she saw the cause of the commotion, and her heart beat faster in her chest. It couldn't be! Her mind screamed at her. No! Not Adel! Please, Blessed Mother...Anyone but the Devil's Right Hand herself!

Then she calmed herself, seeing that her daughter looked about ready to cry. Bending down to stroke Ellone's hair, she whispered soothing words to Ellone. "Shhh, baby. It'll be all over soon...I promise," she whispered, but her heart told her otherwise. It would not be the last time Adel's men would march on Winhill.

Quickly deciding on a path to take, she hurried through the thicket into the undergrowth where it was safe. She could pass through to the entrance of her house without being noticed that way, and she'd be safe--for now--at least.

"Where is she?" Adel shouted, her voice magnified over the din of the angry townsmen. "Winhill will burn if you don't tell us where the child is!"

Raine felt her heart seize up. Her breathing grew heavy and her eyes wide with fright. If her secret had been betrayed, then nothing was safe any more. Nobody was safe.

She saw sour Agnes Flannighan look at Adel with beady eyes. A grim look of defiance was in that sour face, and Agnes spat at the feet of the woman the world had a cause to fear. "There's nobody called Rosline Gina here," she said boldly. "You can check all you like, but there's nobody of that name living in Winhill."

Raine's heartbeat returned to normal. Thank you, blessed mother, she thought, as she managed to turn the handle of the door with shaking hands. She was safe again--for now, at least.

She went to the cupboard where she kept her cards, shuffling them, pondering the question of why she'd had so close a shave tonight. She dealt them, and looked. They seemed to be telling her that there was more danger to come--the five of swords as the last card down told her more than she needed to know. There would be war, according to her interpretation of the cards.

Raine walked to the window, and looked out onto the square. She saw one of the men who had helped refurbish the pub thrown to the ground by one of Adel's men, and then kicked brutally in the stomach by two other men. Making a sign of protection, Raine left the window.

Blessed Mother, guide us through these troubled times.

Looking out onto the street once more, Raine decided to help in any way she could, even if it meant forfeiting her life, she'd do what she could to save her friends. Grabbing a long-disused pistol from the top drawer of a side table, she snuck downstairs and through the back alley leading to the main square.

They never heard her fire the shot. They never saw her drag a man's body away. They had never suspected that Raine had killed a soldier to save their lives. It was a significant victory, one that deprived Adel of the manpower she needed if she were to destroy Winhill.

The townsfolk looked bewildered as Raine emerged from the building again. They watched, in horror, as she boldly stepped up to Adel.

"Remember me, Adel?" she asked as the townsfolk seemed too shocked to speak.

Adel reeled as she looked at Raine. "I know you," the Sorceress said. "You're...Rosline Leonhart."

Raine smirked triumphantly. "Yes, Adel. You know me. You fear me and what I could do to you if I wished," she said.

She made a symbol behind her back of the snake, its fangs bared and ready to strike the unsuspecting victim. If all went well, soon Adel would be deposed of.

Hiding a smile, Agnes Flannighan sent a meaningful look at Raine. Raine nodded at the other woman who had taken her in and accepted her for what she was without any questions. Between the two of them, Raine knew they could drive out Adel for now.

Agnes was a sour woman, who looked like she'd been drinking vinegar all her life. Hardened and rough though she was, she'd taken the young gypsy under her wing, and taught her all she knew about the other gypsy rituals. Her hair was pulled up in a too-severe bun, and her body was wiry. All in all, she looked like a shrivelled up prune.

Adel, sensing the fact that it was going to be damn near impossible to trick Raine, motioned to her men. "You'll regret the day you ever crossed me, Rosline," she said malevolently.

Raine thought Adel displayed incredible arrogance. "You know, Adel...your arrogance astounds me," she said, "Do you honestly think you own this town--do you think that the lives of these townsfolk are worth so little?" Raine spat at the Sorceress's feet, preparing another barrage of words. "I tell you now; you will die if you remain here."

Adel glared at the woman who defied her. Looking at her soldiers, the Sorceress made a decision. She would leave the town--for now.

The following days were a blur. In the wake of the soldiers and Adel the town as usual was given to gossip. When Raine opened the pub up one night, the first influx of customers were the regulars.

She served them, listening all the while to the talk of the men. They were mainly farmers and farmhands, and some of the fishermen who bought the oysters from her once she'd removed the pearls inside them.

"Adel's promising revenge," Thomas Crichton, an elderly man of about fifty-eight said over a glass of stout.

"She's been promising that since I left Esthar without her leave," Raine said spiritedly. "Besides, what's she going to do? Jump up and down shouting 'kill her! Kill her'? I don't think so."

The men laughed. Raine joined in with the laughter, feeling quite at ease amongst the people of the town.

»«

She'd been there almost four years the day the body washed up on the shore. It was a moonlit night and as usual, she'd been walking the beach after the tide had come in searching once more for the precious pearls and sea gems. The body was dressed in the colours of the Galbadian Army's lower-ranking soldiers, a blue combat suit suggesting that the man had been a grunt.

Running quickly back to the town through the scrub, she called for two of the men to come with her to the shore.

"A man has washed up on the shore," she said, breathless from running the three kilometres from the beach to the town. "He's a Galbadian, not an Estharian, so we can trust that he's not here to take Elle."

Two men came forth. A young farmer by the name of Daniel Faulkner, and another named Colum O'Donahue--a fisherman, were the two who went with Raine to the shore. By then, the people of Winhill had grown to like Raine immensely, despite her unorthodox lifestyle, for her generosity, compassion and charity that she demonstrated, even to those who disliked her.

"Alright Raine, show us where he is," Colum said. Nodding, Raine led the two men to where the soldier's body lay.

"He's in bad shape," Daniel observed, as he and Colum managed to lift the man into a standing position.

Together, the four of them somehow made it back to the town. Raine called for Agnes, who came, a worried look seemingly etched permanently onto her face. She brought with her the medical kit which she carried.

Removing the latex-cotton suit, Raine had to disguise the horror she felt when she saw the extent of the injuries suffered by the man. She knew, just from feeling his arms, that all the bones had been either fractured or broken, and that the welts from the shot-axe would leave permanent scarring on his back.

What Raine was unaware of was that the soldier had come to protect the town, to warn them of the impending war that was sure to come. It was to become her job to nurse the man back to health.

"What's his name?" Colum asked, rifling through the soldier's possessions that were on him when they rescued him.

"Dunno," Daniel replied, searching the suit for concealed pockets.

But it was Agnes who discovered the soldier's identity. The dog tags around his neck had been removed and put aside for later examination, but had not been examined yet. She held one up to the light, watching as the transparent Perspex material showed faintly the etchings made by the engraver's tools.

"Laguna Loire," she said, as she made out what the words said. Agnes looked over at Raine. "The Loires are good people. Their family is one of the oldest Galbadian families around, older than the Delings are, actually."

Raine nodded, stroking the dark hair that was matted with blood and salt from the sea. So he had a good name. She idly wondered how such a man had come to the town, seemingly washed up on the shore by chance.

Perhaps it was fate? She thought, looking through the window into the town square. The day was paling into dusk, the sun dipping down below the houses as it said goodnight to the world. The stars were just starting to make an appearance in the sky when a commotion in the pub downstairs made Raine leap up.

She'd completely forgotten about the pub in the wake of Laguna's arrival. "Oy! Col, can you open up tonight?" Raine called from the stairs. Colum nodded, and headed downstairs to open the pub and pull pints for the rest of the evening.

Raine turned back to Agnes. "I don't want him to die," she said softly. There'd been too many deaths she could've prevented had she used her skills acquired from being a gypsy. It was easy for her to set bones, purge the body of toxins, deliver babies, and a whole plethora of other useful skills that came in handy when she was in a pinch.

Agnes nodded. "It'll take a while for those wounds to heal. I'd suggest Behemoth Balm for the back," she advised, and Raine nodded.

I should have some in my kit, Raine thought, walking over to a cupboard where she kept the tarot cards and her other gypsy equipment. There was a harp in the cupboard, from days when she'd sang for the court of the King of Esthar---when she was just a lass of seventeen, in the days before Adel.

She fingered the instrument lovingly, but did not take it out. It was too precious to take out of the cupboard. She found the balm, and walked back over to Agnes, handing the jar to her as she sat beside the bed.

Looking around at the walls, Raine noticed, for the first time, just how shabby her place looked. It was kind of embarrassing that she spent most of her time refurbishing other people's places for them while neglecting her own. However, that was inconsequential. She felt a pang of embarrassment; perhaps thinking that if Agnes were to look really close at everything, she'd see all the grime and dirt caked onto the windows from years of disuse.

"Ugh.... my head," it was a masculine voice speaking and Raine, sitting beside the bed on a little stool was confused by its origins, but suddenly realised that it was the man who was lying on the bed that had spoken. He seemed to be painfully trying to sit up, but Agnes stopped him from doing so.

"You need to lie down...We're setting the broken bones and trying to ease your pain in any way we can," Agnes said gently. She felt two waves of different emotions flooding her senses. Pity. Compassion. She wasn't sure which one of the two was greater, but she knew that if she pitied him, she would be resented after he was healed.

Raine could hear the conflicting emotions in Agnes' voice. Poor man... she thought, it's not right that Adel can commit great acts of atrocity and never be put on trial as a war criminal.

"How'd it happen?" she asked.

"Dived off a cliff into a waiting Galbadian transport," he replied. "Unfortunately--" and he grimaced with pain,"--I hit the ocean like an egg hits concrete."

Raine hid a smile at the analogy. It had happened too many times for her liking. The last time she'd treated someone who had hit the ocean like that, the patient died just as she was getting better. Raine hoped that it wouldn't be the case for this one.

"Don't talk," she admonished gently, "You just need to focus on getting better."

Seemingly grateful, Laguna's eyes drooped closed again and he was fast asleep within seconds. Raine continued to stroke his hair gently, like a mother would soothe her crying baby. Ellone came and sat next to Raine, on her tiny stool that had a wobble in it. Seeing her daughter, Raine brought the child onto her lap, so she could hold her.

Raine and Ellone watched for several hours as Laguna slept. If Agnes had not said that she'd let Raine know if there was any change in his condition, Raine would've stayed up all night--not sleeping, just waiting.

"Go to bed, dear. I swear on the name of the Blessed Mother that I'll wake you if his condition changes," Agnes said, as she practically pushed Raine out of the room. Admitting defeat, Raine did go to bed. But she couldn't sleep, lying uncomfortably in the bed, the sheets somewhere down around her ankles, and the doona on the floor. Tossing and turning, and finally admitting she couldn't, Raine jumped out of bed.

Perhaps I should just look at the cards...They'll help me sleep, I hope, she thought, going to the cupboard for the precious things. Her fingers brushed against the harp once more. Decisively, she pulled it out of the cupboard, holding it against her chest.

Once she had sat down with the harp lying across her lap, she began tuning it by ear. Listening to the notes, she strummed a few chords, and was delighted that it was just perfect. Now, she needed something to play while she had it out. Her fingers played over the old strings gracefully. Finally deciding on an old piece she'd learnt years ago, she played the opening bars of it.

"I wish I was in Carrickfergus,
Only for nights in Ballygrant
I would swim over the deepest ocean,
For my love to find
But the sea is wide and I cannot cross over
And neither have I the wings to fly
I wish I could meet a handsome boatman
To ferry me over, my love to find."

She wasn't sure what had prompted her to play the old ballad, but whatever it was, it was a welcome change. Her songs usually had been made up on the fly, and normally she could never recall what the words were when she wished to write them down for a future time. Her fingers continued plucking the strings of the harp, softly picking out melodies and little tunes as she did so. Perhaps it was the music that loosened her mind and allowed her to think over the importance of what she'd said to Adel those years ago.

I can't remember it, but she fears what I could do to her if I wished...It's so easy when you've betrayed Adel to become someone she fears, if not only for her own sake, but for the sake of Esthar. She's a megalomaniac, and I know her desire is to rule the entire world eventually. Someone has to stop her...

She remembered the resistance faction she and her friends had been in. It had been known as the Legion of the White Sword, a group consisting mostly of political science students, radicals, and the occasional gypsy with an education. She'd been one of the latter. It had met three times a week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday, to discuss the issue of the uprising that Adel had caused. She remembered, too, the day the Legion had been forced to disband.

»«

"Meeting tonight. Twenty hundred hours sharp. Don't be late," Kate said, as she smiled at Raine, before getting on her hovercraft vehicle. Nodding, Raine had bid Kate farewell until the evening.

At Twenty Hundred Hours, Raine entered the dingy little diner the resistance had chosen. She was one of the first to arrive, and as usual, she sat down at the bar, and ordered a drink.

"Tough day?" Rich asked, pouring the drink of her choice. Raine nodded, and Rich knew what she was referring to. He'd fallen for her, years earlier, when she was only sixteen, and he, twenty.

At twenty-two, Raine had been the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. They'd been unofficially a couple for two years. Then something had happened which changed all that. A mission had been successful, and they celebrated with champagne and laughter. They'd each returned to their homes, yet Rich had gone with Raine under some pretext both of them knew was a lie.

Richard Tudor--Rich, to his friends, was one of the founders of the Legion. It had begun after an event opened his eyes to the instability of the current ruler's reign. There'd been small uprisings begun by those who believed that Esthar should do away with the monarchy, and become a republic. He was of the firm belief that no, one could not just exchange one autocracy for the other. As a student of history, he had seen the mistakes made by others who had created revolutions only to end up oppressing those who had oppressed them.

Rose Moore was the next person to enter the diner. She, along with Richard and Raine, had become friends and involved with the Legion by what had happened. Like the revolution that had allowed Vinzer Deling to claim the city that was formerly known as Oriana, they feared the same thing would happen in Esthar. Once Deling had taken Oriana, he renamed the city Deling, to show that he had complete control over the mob.

The success of a revolution lay in the power of the mob. If the founders of a revolt were able to incite the mob against the rulers or the other side, there would be success. If not, then there would be hell to pay. The Legion was well aware of that fact, and it seemed to hang heavily in the air that night.

When Abby Wilson had entered, it was apparent that they'd been discovered. Abby's left arm was partially severed and she was bleeding profusely.

"The damn bastards!" she hissed through the pain, "They found me before I could formulate an escape plan! I'm lucky to be alive, after what they did."

It came to light that Abby had been tapping the lines of high-ranking government officials; suspicious that someone from inside the parliament had been leaking intelligence to Adel's forces. She had been right, but she paid the price dearly, almost losing her arm. As Raine bandaged it, Abby had told the story, and when she was done, Raine's lips were pressed into a thin line, angry.

They'd all been raised on legends of heroic deeds. Who knew the legends better than those directly concerned with them? In the era of their grandparents, many legends had been formed from heroic deeds done on the battlefield, later embellished with magical swords said to be drawn from stone, court magicians able to create tables where the seats were reserved for those deemed worthy for a place at the table. The Legion of the White Swords had been born from the tales of chivalry--legends that were as old as the hills, and far more numerous. Like so many heroic organisations, they pledged to be "all for one and one for all," and also "never to let harm to come to any innocent," and tried their hardest to live up to that pledge.

Told by his grandparents and other well-meaning relatives to stop playing the hero and grow up, Rich had been directed to enter the King's service at twenty-one. The armed forces had not done as his relatives had hoped, but further strengthened the young man's desire to be a hero--to make a name of himself before he turned thirty. He left the King's service at twenty-three, and soon after, the Legion of the White Sword had been formed, dedicated to preserving the old ways.

It would later be suggested that Seifer Almasy had drawn inspiration from the young Richard Tudor, some twenty odd years after all the heroics of his era had passed into folklore or hearsay. Had Richard lived to see the day when the young blonde foolishly became a Knight to the Sorceress Ultimecia, he would've dissuaded him in any way he could. By then, with the bitter taste of failure in his mouth, Richard had realised that his dreams, while noble and chivalric, were dead.

Concerned for the members of the organisation, which he begun in an innocent ploy to shed light on Adel, Rich spoke up then. "Alright. It's far too risky. We'll be caught eventually, so why not give up the fight now, while we can?" It was suggesting political suicide, but it needed to be done. Everyone in the room knew that.

A sister of Kate's had a husband who was a member of Adel's legions. She knew, better than anyone else there what it meant. Kate bit her lip as she watched the group think of what they were to do, and realised that there was nothing that could be done to delay what appeared to be the inevitable.

If there was one thing that the Legion had learnt through the bitter taste of defeat was that it could only do as much as the members were capable of. While it was easy to talk of being heroes, it was another thing to actually become them. The legends of the noble outlaw being loyal to the true king were drawn upon--painted up to incite and invite followers to the cause. However, it was far from it.

Their last covert operation had been a success. Rich, with the help of Raine, Kate, and Abby, had successfully managed to reroute a secure connection from Adel's headquarters in one section of Esthar and send it to the command centre of the police. They'd effectively prevented a riot.

When they disbanded that night, Raine had gone home to an empty house, a note on the table saying her housemates had been taken downtown to the police station for questioning. It was then that Raine had realised that it was no longer safe in Esthar. She packed her bags, never realising that she was pregnant with the child of Richard Tudor. She left that night, never to return. It would be the last time Richard would ever see her.

He kissed her goodbye at the train station. The rain had been pounding down outside, but in the warmth of the shelter, they'd shared a final kiss, bittersweet. He could taste the salt from her tears in the kiss, and knew it was the final goodbye. Adjusting his glasses, he took his coat off, wrapping it around Raine for the warmth. She'd need it more than him. He could always buy another one. They'd hugged, promising empty promises to write. Both of them knew, however, that once they were separated, that was it.

Nine months later, she gave birth to a girl. She called her Ellone.

Raine later found out through complete accident that Richard had married a girl from the Rosetti clan of Trabia, and had died a horrendous death when their car had collided with another, killing Richard and his wife instantly. Their son, Irvine Kinneas, would later become a companion and contemporary of her own son.

»«

Never once had Raine mentioned who Ellone's father was. It was one of those inconsequential matters when on the run. She'd begun to fabricate a lie that Ellone's parents had been killed in a raid, and insisted on Ellone calling Raine by her first name around strangers, while in private, it was to be mum or mother if the need be. What Raine had not counted on, in fact, had been that the lie was easier to live than the truth. Raine was haunted by Richard's features in Ellone--even the mannerisms were the same. With the lie, she could look past the fact that she'd lost Richard when she escaped Esthar that night. He'd died two years later carrying out a raid on Adel's manor, or so she’d heard.

The ghosts of the past were what Raine had to contend with every day she spent in Winhill. Thankfully, they had accepted her without comment, assuming that she'd been a young war widow from Esthar--which was partially true. But the only person Raine trusted with her past was Agnes, who had heard the entire story the day she'd arrived in Winhill with Ellone on her hip.

The light of morning had begun to creep over the town as she'd lost herself in the memories. With a sigh, she walked back to the cupboard, and put the harp back there. A warm glow of light greeted her in the kitchen, the sun seeming to smile upon the world that morning. Whatever had transpired the night before gave room to introspection, and as she busied about preparing breakfast for herself and the patient in the room above, she sang blithely.

...it annoys me that:

quistrepe — Tue, 01 May 2007 12:23:01 GMT

People like Kerry O'Brien of The 7.30 Report deem it necessary to splash "OMG TEH INTARWEBS ARE TEH EBIL!" types of stories on the news. Mum says it has stuff to do with them not understanding internet culture and the teenagers who use it, and them wanting to understand it. Internet-savvy teens and people in their 20's, 30's and 40's who are internet savvy do not seem to have the same issues that people of an older generation do when it comes to the internet.

It's not on the air until tomorrow evening, but even so, the thought of older generations blaming the internet culture for emerging societal trends and so-called evils makes me annoyed. They don't understand it, and I think that, more than anything else, leads us to more misunderstanding as the internet culture can be an absolutely great thing in many circumstances. However, having said that, there are some pretty nasty things on the net out there. That doesn't mean that sites like myspace or vampirefreaks should be portrayed as evils for what their content is. Xanga, Deadjournal, blogspot, etc, are all reputable on some level or another, and while I don't agree with some of the things that are posted on these sites and even on livejournal, it's not fair that the media should vilify such an outpost for creativity and incoherent rantings and ravings of teenagers and drama-whores.

Emo, Goth, and Punk styled lives are not necessarily brought upon by internet culture and subculture, they are also often a direct choice of the person influenced by friends into certain music genres. The goth movement, for instance, is definitely not evil, and yet Emo and other subcultures in life are portrayed as "bad" or "evil" simply for being different from the societal norm. Yes, the goth scene is huge on livejournal, and one of the people on my friends' list is a goth, but it's also huge in real life; a society that doesn't conform is thus seen as "strange" and "weird" and those who condemn things simply without understanding them are narrow-minded bigots.

Like I said to viginti_duo, I may not agree with their choice or their lifestyle, but I will defend their right to chose that lifestyle for themselves. With the emergence of much anti-Islam sentiments, I found that I had to defend the Muslims to my Uncle Anthony and Pa, given that they didn't know people who were Muslim, and only relied upon what the extremists made of it. I've known many people who are Muslim, and they're not evil people; far from it, and thus I do not agree with what my grandfather and uncle say, and tried to defend [the Muslims] them to my grandfather and uncle.

In other news, I may have ulcerations in my stomach. Joyous.

Genesis of Idea for Novel: Need Imput!

quistrepe — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 12:02:05 GMT

Prologue

She shakes her head, a little sadly. "No," she states, "He was a King of Men--but not a man of kings." As she has done, on other occasions, she pauses and waits for her words to sink in. She looks out at the crowd gathered in the sun-filled piazza, wondering if they truly understand the impact of her words. They titter nervously, uncertain of her carefully constructed phraseology. She looks out at the crowd again from underneath her black hood, searching their faces, hoping to catch sight of one face she knows, instinctively, she will never see again. A phantom seems to dance before her eyes, enveloping her in a sense of immense and incomprehensible grief.

She sees him as he was that fated day. She can see the flashing of his sword at his waist, the gleam of the silver fastenings on his armour, the sad, intelligent grey eyes set in amongst smooth, high cheekbones, an aquiline nose--the mark of nobility--though he came from peasant stock--his beard, flecked already with the telltale signs of age, and his proud, erect stance that he always bore himself with. She remembers handing him a nosegay, hands trembling with fear. She wonders, now, whether he knew his destiny on that day--that terrible day.

She looks over at the body, so high above the milling crowd, lying in repose, his hands clutching his sword and shield in his sleep of death. Her eyes trace his profile, the lean body, the smooth cropped head. She lowers her eyes--she cannot bear the overwhelming grief that threatens to overpower her--and she feels a tear trickle down her cheek. But she has to be strong, she cannot lose her composure. The populace require her to be strong--not just for their sake, but also for hers. She knows that if she gives in she will go insane with grief and be deemed unfit for ruling. For that is what she is--a ruler. A queen. She mourns her king of kings, though he was never thus crowned whilst alive. She feels a hand on her shoulder, and knows who it is. She can smell the familiar spiced perfume of one of her attendants.

"My lady?" It is a hesitant voice, soft, melodious. She turns, can see the old, lined face and neatly coiffed grey hair. She manages a small twist of the lips that barely passes as a smile.

“I am fine, Treasa,” she states firmly, inviting no further questions.

The crowd is silent. Their queen is in mourning for her king. A chivalrous man, who would never have the morning sun kiss his brow, a man who defended their country to the death. It would be many a year before another king came along—another one strong enough to rule wisely and fairly. A man would come to sit on the throne when everyone else thought it long-gone and empty from the line of kings….

Chapter One

Along the road, the peasants trudged, sacks slung over their backs, their bellies empty. They’d been travelling the weary road for days, their stomachs grumbling, growling. They were headed to the city to find work, money to feed their famine-struck families, for skins to trade and bread to buy and sell. They were a motley assortment. From those who’d come from as far as the northern port of Gathka, to those who’d come from the village of Dath. They were all headed to the Imperial City of Godin, hoping that there were jobs and shelter there. The drought the year before had devastated the wheat and rye crops, the ground hard and dusty. They needed rain, and they needed it soon. If not, the famine which had already struck families to the north, to the villages surrounding Gathka, would kill them and their families. The livestock had already suffered. Some of the peasants had died—their party had been larger when they’d set out three moons ago. Then there was one, a lone man standing behind the others, dressed in the cowl and brown tunic of a monk. He stood alone, distanced from the band of peasants that continued on, looking out from underneath his dark cowl.

Father Namnel. He was known as that in the monastery, where he was a high-ranked monk of the L’vine faith. Older than most, Namnel was on his way to Godin to deliver a missive to another high-ranked priest in the order. If he hadn’t been lucky to chance across these peasants headed the same way as him, he may have had great difficulty in reaching the Imperial City.

The basic outline would be similar in some ways to the premise of Aragorn in Lord of the Rings, wherein as the story unfolds, Father Namnel becomes more and more important. (He's Chris in disguise ;))

An attempt at poetry. Inspired by Cathán O'Malley, a character I play at TNG...

quistrepe — Fri, 16 Feb 2007 14:15:02 GMT

This was inspired in part by Cathán, and also by Dante's Inferno.

Recollections of A Man and his Twin.

When we were boys, do you remember
Playing with our horses, stuffed to the brim
With old horsehair, their tanned hides
The way when, at night, you and I
We used to lie awake at night and dream
Of glory and of things unseen that we
Would never realise that we would
One day witness.

War came, I remember
The thrill of trying on the uniform,
How shiny the brass buttons looked
In the mirror above the bathroom sink
And how you, in your wisdom did decree
That if there was a choice, between us
That it would be you that died to save me.

Remember, too, the times we spent
Drinking with one another in the pub
Until the morning slowly crept
Upon us until the day was new
Fresh-morning dew had fallen soft
And we, in our drunken state
Trotted off home together.

Then one day, you and I
We stood at one another's doors,
Tears pouring from my eyes
The life I'd known had gone before
I'd even had a chance to blink,
But-- do you remember?

When we were two young boys
Playing with our old toys
The innocence we had back then
Shall never be the same again
War came and changed each of us
Changed you, changed me,
Changed all of us
In subtle ways we made it known.

Resplendent we were
In our shiny uniforms
Stepping forwards to receive
On our chests, our badge
Our medals that seemed so fake
And insincere after what we'd seen.
You left yours there, and I, I dropped mine
Down in the pit that excretion consumes.

And now at twenty-eight I see
That what was left of you and me
Was what the war did not destroy
We're still those two little boys
Playing with our horsehair horses
In the paddock at the farm.

-- L. E. Hurley
17th February, 2007.

Saddam and Mel

quistrepe — Wed, 13 Dec 2006 23:14:27 GMT

Hahahaha. There's this picture of Mel Gibson which I found at Oh No They Didn't, (ohnotheydidnt) and then I showed it to nijiironohako and she agreed that the resemblance between Saddam Hussien and Mel Gibson to be ironic and strikingly similar.

Isn't the resemblance striking?

Another graphical piece of nonsense

quistrepe — Sat, 09 Sep 2006 14:07:41 GMT

Large Icon Batch

quistrepe — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 12:56:48 GMT

Teasers:

001

002

003

Created with angelamaria's Icon Table Generator @ Bauble

001

002

003

004

005

006

007

008

009

010

011

012

013

014

015

016

017

018

019

020

021

022

023

024

025

026

027

028

029

030

031

032

033

034

035

036

037

038

039

040

041

Created with angelamaria's Icon Table Generator @ Bauble

Second batch of Advent Children Icons

quistrepe — Sun, 06 Aug 2006 11:05:12 GMT

1	2	3
4	5	6
7	8	9
10	11	12

Icons: Advent Children

quistrepe — Sat, 05 Aug 2006 08:25:55 GMT

Basic Rules
1. No Hotlinking-- it's nasty.
2. Please credit quistrepe or quistrepe-icons
3. Please show the common courtesy and tell me which ones you've taken.

1	2	3

4	5	6

7	8	9

Musing

quistrepe — Thu, 27 Jul 2006 10:24:49 GMT

pattytoo got me thinking about the whole thing with CS Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia and how fondly I loved them. I first read them at nine, and then again at nineteen. A gap of ten years separated the two readings, and thus the depth of understanding and appreciation that I gained from this year's reading was much more enhanced by my knowledge of theological issues as well as the experiences I have had.

It is not easy to disregard the strong Christian undercurrent in CS Lewis, as he was a theologian, I think, and thus it shows heavily in most of his work. When I watched The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe both on DVD and at the cinema, I was struck with the immense awe of what Lewis had managed to create in a simple allegorical tale. In the movie, the one scene that sticks so strongly with me is that where Aslan is sacrificed on the Stone Table. The sheer imagery of that scene, coming from the standpoint of someone who has studied Christian history at a very basic level, mimics that of the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus. The reasoning behind why it sticks with me is that we go knowing that Aslan intends to sacrifice himself on the table to save Narnia-- the selflessness of a great hero.

Then there's the character of Lucy Pevensie. To me, it is Lucy who seems the most real-- even though Peter, Susan and Edmund are also real characters, it is Lucy's wonder and awe at the fact that she's discovered an entirely real and beautiful world is what makes her so special. As well as her adamant belief and hurt when the three other children don't believe her, there is also that beautiful courage that she gets.

I'm not sure whether or not I have a point just yet. I'll know when I'm done typing this up. The staunch beliefs that the Pevensies, and later their cousin Eustace Scrubb and Jill have, allowed them to navigate through this strange world. Though in Prince Caspian, it is shown that Susan no longer believes in Narnia-- that it was just some made up fantasy, it eerily echoes the period I felt when I no longer believed that the little girl who had gone to church and believed so strongly in God and the divine beings was there within me. I happened to chance upon a letter last year, that was written to me in 1998, from a dear friend who was fighting a losing battle with cancer. (She died that year-- as a result of the battle with cancer). Carole had always had a great warm smile for everyone, and though in a lot of pain, she obviously trusted and believed that it was in her destiny and that she was going to God as part of the divine plan that there was. At this juncture, I'd like to point out that I, too, believe in a divine plan, though not one that has logic.

Later, the Pevensies in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader encounter the character of Reepicheep the mouse. Though he's a small mouse, he goes to the edge of the world saying that it's a great adventure and that he can't wait for it. So he sails away, and in a sense, dies. Though it's not in Lewis, the quote from Peter Pan by JM Barrie seems apt to describe what I believe goes through Reepicheep's head in Narnia: "To die will be an awfully big adventure" (Peter Pan).

Then later still, in The Last Battle, there is an important message to be learnt about the corruption of the word of whichever religion you believe in to the benefit of those who are in power. In essence, the battle is the one that goes on in the Middle-East. Tash versus Aslan. Calormenan against Narnian. Allah against Yahweh, Jew against Muslim. In the end of The Last Battle, it's very much a post-end of the world world. At the very end, Aslan takes them away to what could aptly be described as heaven-- or a version of heaven that was just like the world that had faded away from them and been destroyed, and a True Narnia was reborn.

It's an interesting concept, but I've lost my train of thought. Maybe it'll come back eventually.

Big-Assed Font Reference Guide

quistrepe — Sat, 15 Jul 2006 12:52:03 GMT

These are all the fonts I've got installed on my computer. It's a huge lot, so I'm gonna be kind and

Email/Comment here if you want me to send any of them over!
laura.e.hurley@gmail.com with the reference: "Font List" in the subject header, please ^_^

A short series of drabbles

quistrepe — Fri, 07 Jul 2006 09:53:19 GMT

Chris-centric. TNG-Verse

These take place over a long time span. Years, to be exact. Chris mulls over his life.

{•»}01.Summary: Chris sings Stella to sleep. Late night, soft songs, memories of singing his sisters to sleep.

It was midnight. Chris paced the floorboards wearily, holding his daughter in his arms as he rubbed her back gently. He sighed softly, tired. Yet he reminded himself it was just as Julie was as a baby-- the same ritual, the same songs he'd sung to his two youngest sisters were the ones he sung now to his daughter-- Stella Maris. He sang softly to her, the words of the lullaby soothing. “But the heart that truly loves never forgets,” he sang, hearing his daughter’s cries cease. He carried his darling back to her cradle, before kissing her cheek. Goodnight.

{•»}02.Summary: Chris gets irked, Stella cheers him up.

Things were going downhill. Had been since the birth of his son. He’d received several owls from mother dearest demanding he return home. Like hell he would. She’d simply yell more at him, perhaps even getting more upset at the fact that he’d only written to his Dad about his children, conveniently forgetting to mention them to mother. He wished he’d been allowed to grieve over Clara’s death, but Mother had expressly forbidden it. He twisted the wedding band on his left hand, waiting for Aiden to return. There was a tug at his pant leg. Stella smiled at him.

{•»}03.Summary: Chris returns to England.

So he was back. Divorced. It was such an ugly word. As he knocked on the door of his father’s study, Chris felt empty. Away from his ex-wife, away from his beloved children. Dad would be pleased to see him, but his mother? Christian would be surprised if it didn’t degenerate into a shouting match for his mother’s part. Hence why he was seeing Dad first, and Mother second.

“There you are,” voice shrill with anger, Catrin held the glass of sherry in her left hand. Chris didn’t even turn.

“Why did I bother?” he muttered, turning, forced smile affixed.

{•»}04.Summary: Chris misses his daughter's birthday.

Stella would be seven this year. He was far away, on a mission somewhere. With a lap desk and a clean piece of parchment and a fairly-good quill, Chris wrote a letter to his daughter. She was seven—and where was he? In fricking Tanzania. With Daveigh Arrington, nonetheless. It was at least a way to get out of England and out of Mother’s clutches.. Looking up at the sky, then back at the parchment, Chris wrote.

Happy birthday, darling girl.
Love, Dad.

He sealed it and placing it in the talons of the owl, watched the bird take flight.

{•»} Drabble 05.Summary: Romania-- mid-mission thoughts.

2008. Amélie Faulkner. He’d honestly tried to love her, but he’d never had the chance to mourn Clara, and he still hadn’t completely just forgotten Aiden. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a glass of beer half-raised to his lips. Cold seeped into every fibre of his being in this damned droughty castle. Romania was a dreary place—the castle even worse. Tonight it was the anniversary of Clara’s untimely demise—a night he really didn’t want to remember.

To his left, Tom and Luke, Col, Lydia and James conversed quietly. He couldn’t be arsed to join their conversation. Meaningless.

Some Icons that I can't be bothered to post to quistrepe_icons

quistrepe — Wed, 28 Jun 2006 01:20:35 GMT

Phantom of the Opera Icons:

1	2	3

4	5	6

Meeting Love, Finding Despair

quistrepe — Mon, 19 Jun 2006 12:48:45 GMT

Title: Meeting Love, Finding Despair
Chapter: 02.
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Characters: Seifer Almasy, Quistis Trepe, Laguna Loire, Kiros Seagil, Anisa Armanti (OC), Síla Trepe (OC), Various other characters will be mentioned at random.
Summary: It's been ten years since the end of the Second Sorceress War. Quistis, during this time, has packed her bags and moved to Esthar. Seifer was imprisoned, and has recently been released.
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy does not belong to me.
Feedback: Would be absolutely adored ♥ So would reviews and critique!

«-----------------------------------------------»

Chapter Two

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies away in the wind
-- Guillaume Apollinaire

«--------------------------------------------------»

The woman outside President Loire’s office sighed, smoothing her skirt over her knees. Her hands fidgeted with her hair, twirling strands around her fingers idly, in nervous habit. She wasn’t accustomed to waiting, not after several years in a very high-powered job. Anisa Armanti, at the age of thirty five, had become the President of Timber. Following on from Quistis’s lead, Anisa had continued her popular predecessor’s work—strengthening the alliances that Timber had forged with the powerful military city of Esthar. As such, it was one of the days when she was away from her country, away from the hue and cry of the populace of Timber. Shortly after the Second Sorceress War, Anisa had assisted Quistis with the formation of the Republic of Timber. And now, she, Anisa was president. She, the darkie, the one that’d faced prejudice because of the colour of her skin, was a president of a good, well-run country.

A soft cough alerted Anisa to the presence of another being in the room with her. She glanced up, seeing a familiar face, and she smiled warmly. After all, she did like Kiros. “Anisa, Laguna’s ready to see you now,” he said, his voice warm and deep. It was one of those voices she enjoyed hearing a lot of, melodious to her ears. It reminded Anisa of her brother, Baha’s voice on a good day. Baha always made her smile, and so did Kiros. Anisa stood, smoothing her skirt down and adjusting her handbag as she did so. Kiros opened the door, holding his arm out to indicate that she ought to go in first. After Anisa passed through the door, Kiros closed it discretely behind her. Sitting down, Kiros and Anisa waited patiently for Laguna.

It didn’t take long for Laguna to arrive, a little girl following after him with her thumb in her mouth and clutching a teddy. (Well, it wasn’t a teddy, in all actuality—it was a Moomba plushie, but before we go on it needed clarification.) Anisa quirked an eyebrow but held her tongue, knowing that it wasn’t the best time or place to question why Laguna Loire was allowing a little girl to listen to political debates. Kiros said nothing, but carefully took Síla by the hand and led her out of the office. He led her down into Ellone’s rooms, where the dark-haired woman smiled at both of them, and swiftly took over the care of Síla.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, Anisa,” Laguna began, smiling as he reached across to kiss Anisa’s cheek in greeting. “How are you keeping?” Anisa smiled.

“I’m well, and it’s also a pleasure to see you, too,” Anisa replied formally, her voice tinted with a bit of an accent that was soft and melodious. It was a curious accent, soft and sweet. To Laguna, it reminded him of Raine’s accent, the one from Winhill. The dialectic patterns were similar, too, he remembered. But very few people knew that Winhill and Timber shared a dialect; most just spoke the standard language and completely forgot about the whole accent issue. But again, Laguna was digressing from the subject at hand. He tended to do that a lot, go off on tangents entirely unrelated to the subject, yet somehow, he always seemed to remember the original subject of whatever he was talking about.

«-----------------------------------------------»

Quistis pursed her lips, thinking deeply. A finger reached out to twirl a strand of her hair around her finger out of nervous habit and uncertainty. Just what was Seifer Almasy doing in her office, and more importantly, how had he found out where her office was? Oh, sure, she could think of several reasons why he could’ve found it, but she wanted to know straight from the Shumi’s mouth as they said in these parts. Or rather, from the region of Trabia—but it was still the same thing, really. “You— you,” she began, “How did you get access to my office?”

With an irritating smirk that hadn’t changed with incarceration, Seifer replied caustically. “I followed a sign, Trepe.” Duh. Of course he’d followed the bloody signs—it wasn’t that difficult to find her office. Then again, he did know her habits. Boring little Quisty, with her prim and proper hairdo and manners. He let his eyes roam over her face, down her neckline, down to her pert breasts. He had to admit it, she was hot. And a cheeky smile crossed his face as he spoke, “If you didn’t want me to come see you, why, then, did you make it painfully obvious where your office was?” He pulled off one of his gloves with a sigh, looking at her again.

“Get out of my office, Seifer, before I call security,” Quistis demanded, her eyes flashing towards the door and then back to Seifer. The look on her face was void of emotion. It was her typical icy look that Seifer knew so well. Even though he knew she could be icy, he also knew that there was far more to her than that. He’d seen it himself, many times over, the exasperated look cross her face. The same look that she’d given him after the scar on his nose had occurred, how he’d been kept back after class to discuss the ramifications of his actions. She’d warned him then that his temper could get the better of him, if he wasn’t careful. He’d scoffed at her well-meant words, thinking she was nothing but a meddlesome troublemaker.

Calmly, Seifer shrugged. “How about no? Not until you hear what I have to say,” he said coldly. “And please, hear me out before you make any hasty decisions.” He was imposing as ever, even with the shrunken frame from the years of incarceration. Quistis let her eyes wander over his body discretely, noting that he was actually not all that bad looking, not that she’d ever tell him that. Seifer looked over at her, smirking to himself as she tried to hide the fact that she was staring at him. But he wouldn’t say anything for now—if anything, he’d keep quiet.

Quistis sighed. He had a point, she had to concede, that she really ought to listen to him before throwing him out of her office. She motioned that he could sit down, and waited until he did so before she herself sat. It was a rather comfortable office chair that she had, all soft and supportive. Sitting straight-backed, from years of military routine, Quistis effortlessly picked up a pen and began doodling on the pad in front of her as she waited for Seifer to speak. “So, Seifer, speak,” she said simply. She needed a coffee, but she’d just had lunch moments ago before coming back to her office. The light-headed feeling that she had was not good, and it probably meant that she was low on glucose—never a good thing.

Seifer looked at her levelly, looking her in the eye. He held her gaze unwaveringly for a moment before she broke it, and he then played with the cuff of his sleeve. “Do you want the full story? Or the abridged version? I’m happy to give you either version—but it’s up to you, Instructor,” he said, the last word coming out more venomous than he’d intended. Old habits, it seemed, died hard with Seifer Almasy. It equally infuriated and amused him that the simple title of instructor, when paired with the woman in front of him, would not leave him be. It was definitely a derogatory word on his lips—or it had been years ago—but on the lips of others, it was a mark of respect. He knew that, just as Quistis did.

“I have all afternoon, so please, humour me with the full version,” Quistis replied with the barest ghost of a smile playing on her lips. She was remembering an incident, some thirteen years ago now, that had suddenly sparked in her mind at the name instructor being used by Seifer.

«------------------------------------------------»

It was her first day as an instructor. She was incredibly nervous, and the familiar fluttering of butterflies in her stomach made her want to back out, to run to the bathroom, to do anything except stand up and teach a class of students barely older than herself. Some of them, she was sure, were bound to be disrespectful—thinking they could get away with things just because she was young and this was the first real lesson she’d ever taught. Quistis bit her cheek, taking a deep breath before slipping her glasses on. Her uniform was impeccably presented, as usual—it was one aspect of her grooming she took especial care with. Mustering up enough courage, Quistis stepped confidently into the classroom and stood behind the desk, syllabus in her hand.

Shortly, the students filed in, and the lesson began smoothly. The peace, however, and smoothness of the class, did not last for long. Seifer Almasy and Squall Leonhart—both brilliant students in their own way, rivals and it was rumoured that the two of them had been bedfellows more than once—but Quistis had dismissed that as just cafeteria gossip. It’d begun innocently enough, with Squall trying to do his work and Seifer apparently pestering him and not doing his own work.

She did what was the recommended course of action described by the Instructor’s Manual, remembering that it was a godsend in times like these. “Mr Almasy, do you care to share with the rest of the class what’s so important that you’re interrupting Mr Leonhart’s work?” she called out acerbically, a very small hint of amusement could also be detected in her voice.

The blonde troublemaker flipped her the birdie. Her mouth tightened in a scowl. “Detention.”

…and that detention had proved far more interesting than she ever would’ve expected. Flushed and satiated, she’d hurried back to her dormitory, leaving an equally-satiated Seifer to wander back to his own dormitory. And thus they became lovers in secret.

It lasted until Squall Leonhart ended up in the infirmary with an injury to the head after training. Seifer had all but passed the SeeD exam, but he’d repeatedly failed due to his reluctance to follow orders and procedure. Quistis despaired of him.

Following that, they’d been at one another’s throats. That day in the Disciplinary Room just prior to Squall and his squad going off to assist the Timber Owls, Seifer had nearly raised a hand against her. He’d had a hissy fit, and stormed off, taking only Hyperion and his shredded dignity.

«------------------------------------------------»

He looked at her, watching as she gazed into the distance behind his head that he was sure was oh-so-fucking fascinating. Much more so than him. It irked him, drove him crazy. She was supposed to be paying him attention, not the fucking wall! “I suppose you could say that the years in prison were years I spent thinking about all the fucking misdeeds I did during the war, couldn’t you?” he smiled sardonically. “Truth is, it wasn’t far from the truth. Ultimecia… she was a fucking mind-trip, you know? Like I’d been tripping on acid or some other illegal substance that fucks with your mind. It took me six years to stop my mind going back over that fucked-up year, I almost went mad.”

There was a slight hint of shock registering in Quistis’s eyes and in the way her jaw was set. To her shock, she hadn’t expected Seifer to be this forthcoming about his experiences as the knight to the sorceress. Hadn’t Headmaster Cid explained that without a knight, a sorceress could become evil and would perhaps have to be killed by SeeD in every generation—the true purpose of SeeD had been revealed when all hell broke loose in the War. So Ultimecia, ultimately, was a tragic figure—she had no knight loyal and true, except for one that existed only in a time-compressed universe. Seifer had been her knight in that universe, serving her through the woman that she possessed—none other than the woman Seifer called mother. If Sigmund Freud existed in this world and universe, he probably would’ve described Seifer as Oedipal. But the label didn’t exist here, and thus it’s probably a pointless narrative effort by the author trying to insert humour and classical references and psychoanalysis. These thoughts, however, were floating around in Quistis’ brain, and thus she frowned. It seemed to her that Seifer had genuinely repented, a saved sinner, in some ways. If there was ever a redeemed man, she was certain she might be looking at him. “I don’t know anything about that, Seifer,” she said gently, looking down at her bare hands. She found that inspecting her nails was much more fascinating than looking at Seifer, and she had no clue as to why.

“Given the experience that I had during that hellish period of time,” he continued as though Quistis hadn’t spoken, “I’m getting a second chance to prove that I can be of use, that I do know what I’m talking about, and that’s a fucking miracle. Laguna, smart man, trusts people and believes in the redemptive power of a second chance—a chance to do things over. I learnt a lot when I was in prison—a whole fucking lot—about things like that. Ten years in the clinker leads to a lot of thought, it also leads to a lot of unmentionable things that I’d rather you didn’t know about,” Seifer shuddered at the memories of prison, of being in solitary due to fights that he’d foolishly provoked, trying to prove that he was a tough man. Of course, that’d been in the first year of his incarceration. Throughout the other nine years, Seifer had read a lot. Unlike the cliché of finding that there was indeed a god, Seifer had long discovered that there was no god, nothing but a big void of existentialistic thought. The questions had plagued him—why were some men hailed as heroes and others, like him, branded as criminals and shackled against the wall as though they were rampaging mass murderers. Existentialism wasn’t something Seifer had ever thought about before being imprisoned. But in the end, Seifer had realised that he’d needed this time—this prison sentence—to bring him back to who he had been before Ultimecia had destroyed a part of his soul.

Quistis, again, said nothing. Pursing her lips in thought, she silently admitted that he’d done a lot of thinking while in prison. Perhaps even more than she had in the ten years she’d not been a SeeD. The adverse affects of their reliance upon Guardian Forces was something that was still being charted, but Quistis knew she’d do anything to retrieve some of the memories that they’d stolen from her. Memories, thoughts, feelings—everything was all as Ultimecia had said: “Reflect on your childhood...your sensations, your words, your emotions.” Ultimately, the sorceress had been right. They all escaped Quistis and Seifer—hell, they escaped everyone who used the destructive power of the Guardian Forces. She appreciated that now, appreciated the bitter price every SeeD had to pay in exchange for their power.

«-----------------------------------------------»

Anisa, meanwhile, sat down on her bed in one of the guest suites. It’d been a long and frustrating day for her, politically, at least. On the personal side though, it’d been a good day and Kiros was taking her out for dinner. It seemed to happen whenever she arrived in Esthar, like a set pattern of a romance, in a way. Neither of them would ever admit that they were developing warm fuzzy feelings towards one another. It would be entirely unprofessional, and they were strictly friends. The dress that she’d packed with her hung now on a coat-hanger Her shoes and handbag, too, were ready to go. Quickly showering and changing, applying a very minimal layer of make-up, she was ready when the buzzer rang.

It seemed to her that Kiros, too, had given thought to their evening. Dressed rather sharply in a lovely-looking dark grey jacket, white shirt and matching dark grey trousers, he looked good. Unconsciously Anisa’s eyes wandered his body, subconsciously undressing him. Damn, Anisa, stop thinking of him like that, she told herself sternly. It’d ruin things between them, both she and Kiros knew that. Simply smiling up at him, Anisa allowed him to wrap her shawl around her shoulders as she gathered her small clutch from the table. Then they were off.

The night was lovely, little stars peeked out from underneath clouds, the sky not yet entirely dark. The sun, very low on the horizon, gave the last rays of warmth from its dying descent down to the other side of the world, and they walked along the crowded, busy streets of Esthar. Dinner, dancing and wine were on the agenda tonight. No thoughts of politics, of schedules conflicting, of meetings gone awry. It would be a night of pleasure.

Photography

quistrepe — Wed, 14 Jun 2006 08:36:47 GMT

••• Easter Photography •••

Taken with my Canon Powershot A40 and then cleaned up just a little bit in Photoshop.

Those are my shoes, along with some sand and prints in said sand... I wasn't sure what kind of mood I was going for, but that's what I got. Lighting has been adjusted very slightly with the use of a "soft light" layer and a gaussian blur of 2.0 pixels.

With this one, the tide was coming in while I was down on the beach, and, standing to capture the water as it filled the channel with my jeans rolled up to my knees on the opposite bank, it was rather wet and the wind coming off the ocean was cold, too. Again, I have tinkered slightly with the lighting in Photoshop, the top of the rock being blown out unintentionally by a soft-light gaussian blur trick again.

Footprints in the sand, the tracks of so many different people meandering up and down the beach all day long. Again, I have done only the subtlest bit of editing, just because I can.

Classic beach scene.

Early morning as the sun is rising above the ocean, spilling warm light over the world. Minimal editing done on this one. It's the same photo my icon was made from.

The flood of a little pool. The water came up to my knees and I waded in through it, soaking my jeans and making the material really uncomfortably heavy.

The tide of that little pool and the shoreline surrounding the area. You would think that the weather would wear the rocks down so they were smooth, but they were jagged and the edges cut into my feet.

The cliff leads up to a cemetary overlooking the vast expanse of ocean. There's graves dating back to the early 1900's and some even before that. The way up can be seen if you look closely.

The ochre of the rock stands out beautifully against the azure and aquamarine of the sky and the sea. On the same end of the beach as the photo before this one.

My feet... they're tiny.

This is the beach on the other of the side of the cliffs. To get over to this side of the beach, you have to climb up a cliff, walk through the scrub along a pathway in the cemetary, and down the scrabbly pebbly rock edifice that scares me shitless so I go down on my arse.

This is the same expanse of beach as in the previous photo, just from a lot further down the path. The pebbly slipping rocks that you walk down to get to here are so scary because one missed step and you could really hurt yourself going down.

A little bit of a caved area. Can't really remember much about where it was taken.

This rock here is called Dragon Rock, as it looked like a dragon's head the first time we saw it back in 1998-- and it's eroded greatly since then.

Dragon Rock as seen from a distance.

More beach and rocks.

The waves splashing against rocks, and in the distance is Montague Island-- the name, if I remember rightly, has nothing to do with Romeo and Juliet in spite of it having a name from the play.

Caves! Or what could later turn into caves with erosion.

Fishermen on the rocks.

And another one where there's also fishermen.

heee!

quistrepe — Thu, 25 May 2006 00:19:12 GMT

Mrs Giggles says:
I've written it before, but I'm polishing it up with shiny shoepolish
no! the blues won game 1, by 1 lousy point. damn i do not want to watch QLD lose 4 years in a row, that's just boring says:
hehe funny analogy that...unless of course uve finally lost ur mind and u mean that literally, then id b worried
Mrs Giggles says:
nah, not literally
no! the blues won game 1, by 1 lousy point. damn i do not want to watch QLD lose 4 years in a row, that's just boring says:
good, i was just about to reach for the fone and call the men in white coats, n i really didnt want to have to do that to my best friend lol
Mrs Giggles says:
lmao!
no! the blues won game 1, by 1 lousy point. damn i do not want to watch QLD lose 4 years in a row, that's just boring says:
hehe
Mrs Giggles says:
that would've been very bad
no! the blues won game 1, by 1 lousy point. damn i do not want to watch QLD lose 4 years in a row, that's just boring says:
y's that? do i dare ask?
Mrs Giggles says:
caue they would've had a hard time getting me come quietly
no! the blues won game 1, by 1 lousy point. damn i do not want to watch QLD lose 4 years in a row, that's just boring says:
its like wen ned flanders went mad on the simpsons, "do u want to go quietly or do u want to b dragged away kicking and screamin?" then ned says "oh kickin n screamin please" lol i could just picture u doin that lol

--- Hamish and Me!

Meeting Love, Finding Despair

quistrepe — Fri, 19 May 2006 09:23:03 GMT

Title: Meeting Love, Finding Despair
Chapter: 01.
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Characters: Seifer, Quistis, Laguna makes several appearances.
Pairings: Seifer Almasy / Quistis Trepe
Summary: It's been ten years since the end of the Third Sorceress War. Quistis, during this time, has packed her bags and moved to Esthar. Seifer was imprisoned, and has recently been released.
Feedback: Would be absolutely adored ♥ So would reviews and critique!
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VIII does not belong to me. I only borrow the characters copyright of Square-Enix for entertainment purposes, and I am making entirely no profit from this little bit of fiction.

«------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------»

Meeting Love, Finding Despair

Chapter One

By Dragonbait

This story is dedicated to my darling friend and an amazing author, Connie Yue. She has supported me through both the first writing of this, and now through its rewrite, and for that purpose, this has been written especially for her.

If there was one thing in the world that Quistis liked more than anything, it was a decent book and a good cup of coffee. Stirring her café latte idly, she turned the page, eagerly absorbing the words. Bibliomania; there was a name for her addiction to books, and there was nothing better, in her opinion, than a good book and a beautiful sunny Esthar day. That was today, and Quistis was sitting outside the small café that had become her second home after her quarters in the Residences. Esthar had been her home for ten years, though now, it felt like she had lived there all her life. Ten years ago, the world had been on the verge of a war perpetrated by Galbadia. Now things were peaceful, the war had been averted, and Quistis had been honoured with medals she had not felt that she deserved. The Seven: Quistis, Squall, Rinoa, Irvine, Selphie, Zell, and to an extent, Xu had been hailed with the garlands of victory, being asked to attend functions, be the public face for SeeD. Nine years ago, Quistis had farewelled Balamb Garden and gone to live in various parts of the world under the guidance of Laguna, Kiros and Ward.

Then there’d been the reasons she left Garden. After the huge thing that saving the world from Sorceress Ultimecia had been, she’d hungered for a quiet life, a life away from where she could and would be ordered into battle at a moment’s notice. So one morning, Quistis Trepe had packed all her worldly possessions into a bag, given back the Guardian Force stones she’d acquired as a SeeD, and handed in all her clearance passes and walked out. The only thing she’d kept was a uniform and her whip, Save the Queen, for she didn’t know just when she might need it. Her blue magic, however, was a part of her that she couldn’t give away—so she kept it, saving it for a rainy day. It was a gift that couldn’t be taken, and she knew that.

Another reason had been that she’d had to preside on the council that sentenced Seifer to jail for ten years following the war. The moment had come where she’d been asked to give a testimony in relation to his character, and unable to lie, she had told them what she’d long held as a belief: Seifer was a good fighter and student, but lacked the discipline that was required in order to be a SeeD. That had been what had made his fate a lesser one than what it would’ve been otherwise. They’d wanted to give him either death or a life in prison, but after hearing the words of his former instructors, the judges had decided on a less harsh fate for him. That had been mere weeks before she’d quit SeeD, and it had had a negative impact on her. That and a culmination of events that had led to her decision. Her Instructors licence had not been reinstated, in spite of Squall’s intervention on her behalf—the Garden Masters had made it clear that they still believed she was unfit to teach. Well, if there was no life for her outside of the dull rigmarole of a SeeD stationed in Balamb, then she decided to leave Garden, cast away her life of a harsh military environment, and travel.

She had moved to Timber. After the Second Sorceress War ended, Quistis had helped the resistance factions drive out the Galbadian Soldiers. In the same way that Laguna Loire, Squall’s father, had been named President of Esthar, Quistis had been appointed the President of the New Timber Republic. It was a job she had done well, with the drafting of the New Timber Constitution, ensuring that each and every person in Timber knew of the referendum, and later, the passing of the bill. She’d been president for five years by the time she became restless, longing for different challenges, different people. As a SeeD, Quistis had been used to dealing with so many diverse groups, so many people came to her on a regular basis, and she’d hated turning them away. So she’d been a SeeD, then an Instructor, then a campaigner and lastly, a President. It was such a turn from the child that had arrived on the Cape of Good Hope in Centra so many years ago--- still wearing the blood-soaked garments from when her parents had been killed.

That had been five years ago. The first election after the Timber Reformation, Quistis resigned as President. Even though she had won the majority again, she still resigned. She travelled to the cold north of Trabia and then to the secluded, warm and sunny Shumi Village, where she was welcomed with open arms. It’d been an interesting experience, living so many miles under the earth with the Shumi. They’d taught her more than anything about how precious life was, how sacred each moment alive was. And then she’d given birth. To say that giving birth changed Quistis would be an understatement. It’d been the most beneficial thing to have happened to her—it softened her, mellowed her. Each day that she spent with her daughter was a blessing. Síla was a true joy for her.

Yet, when Síla was barely seven months old, Quistis felt the urge to move. So, they moved. Quistis relocated herself and her daughter to the city of Esthar. It was with some trepidation that she applied for a job within the elite factions of the Esthar Department of Defence, but she knew, ultimately, that the job was hers. Nobody could possibly have such a good chance, or such a strong case for the job. After all, she had been a SeeD, and a Rank-A SeeD and Instructor at that. She’d gotten the job, and now, four years after leaving Timber, six years after leaving Balamb, Quistis was at peace. She pushed away all the niggling doubts that Síla needed to know her father-- that she needed to have a companion to share her days with. Aside from those small doubts, Quistis was happy.

….but back to the present day. On a particularly sunny Monday afternoon, at roughly thirteen hundred hours, Quistis was sipping her café latte and reading a biography. It was her lunch hour, and the little café where she lunched was known as one of the best in Esthar—called Stellar. The café had been established shortly before the Lunar Cry, the menu was good, the prices reasonable, and the food—well, Quistis would be lying if she said she’d never tasted anything as good as their Gyashi Pesto and Garlic Bread. It was a veritable cornucopia of taste. Then, she frowned. A shadow had fallen across her table. Looking up, she saw President Loire, who looked like he was relieved to find her.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Laguna?” she asked, as the older man sat down. Rapidly marking her page in her book, Quistis turned her attention to Laguna. He looked worn. Careworn, to be exact. There were flecks of grey now showing in his dark hair, and his eyes—the corners held the unmistakeable signs of aging, namely, laugh lines, where ten years ago, there wouldn’t have been that many. “And please, take a seat.”

Laguna sat. With a contented sigh, he rolled his neck, trying to relieve the pain from the stiffness that came with age. He smiled, and a waitress came by, clearing the table and taking an order from Laguna for a cup of green tea. The stuff was good, Laguna thought. He mulled over the various events of the day, his mind sifting through them, trying to remember what it was that he wanted to tell Quistis. She might just be interested in hearing this titbit of news, after all. “Seifer Almasy was released a week ago. He’s been offered asylum here in Esthar—Galbadia doesn’t want him, the Gardens refuse anything to do with him, and so Esthar naturally fell to the task of giving him a chance at normality-- or as normal as it can be after incarceration.” He scratched the back of his head, shrugging. The waitress came back with the tea, and Laguna took a sip. Great stuff, tea.

Laguna lit a cigarette as Quistis pondered on his words. There’d been much negotiation that’d gone on to even allow Seifer to reside in Esthar. After all, the younger man had been single-handedly ready to destroy the world on the whim of a sorceress far into the future. But Laguna believed that no matter how badly someone fucked up, they ought to be allowed a second chance. And Hyne knew he’d been given many of those. Even someone like Seifer Almasy deserved a chance to prove that he’d changed. Laguna believed that. Hell, he’d even offered Seifer a chance to work for him—just to prove that he could and had changed. Scratching his head with the hand not holding the cigarette, Laguna studied Quistis’ face for any signs of subtle or not so subtle change.

It was an interesting face to study, Laguna had to admit. The years outside of a military institution had softened Quistis, as had having a daughter. She was still beautiful, though. Laguna adored Síla, and with good reason, too. Quistis’ daughter was a sunny little child, full of life and joy—and he loved her, for he loved her mother, too, as a parent would love a child. But watching Quistis’s face—that was another thing entirely. As a keen observer of people, President Loire could tell a lot of things from the subtle lines in a face. Currently, Quistis’ face was a mask of indifference, before it changed to the subtleness of surprise.

She was surprised. “It’s been a long time since I saw him,” she said simply. Ten years ago, to be exact. “What’s his job going to be now that he’s here?”

“True, that,” Laguna smiled, “As for his job? He’ll be assigned cleaning tasks at first, under the supervision of Ward—then, after that, he’ll be put into the army as a faceless cadet reporting to either you or me.” He had expected that to be the twenty-eight year old woman’s response. Glancing at his watch, Laguna winced, “I’ve got to fly. Parliament,” he shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips; “Parliament is currently going crazy. I stepped outside to have a cigarette and a breath of fresh air—admittedly, I’m polluting said fresh air with the acrid fumes of my cigarette, but the same principle applies.”

Quistis nodded politely as Laguna held up his half-smoked cigarette. A wave of emotion was flooding her. It had been so long since she had seen Seifer, so long since she was in his arms. So long ago, the two of them had promised to get married and start a family of their own. She could still remember the day he turned against her, joining with the albino, Fujin and her brother, Raijin. He had scorned her, saying that he couldn’t be her knight if she was his instructor. That’d hurt her to hear it. Yet they’d both known the truth: it was against the strict codes of Garden to be seen dating a student—and neither of them had wanted to jeopardise their respective positions as Instructor and Head of the Disciplinary Committee. He was a gallant man, admittedly, yet he was also reckless—which had cost him the one thing he’d dreamed about: being a SeeD. It might’ve been not-so-romantic as his real dream of being the Sorceress’s Knight, but it’d been a dream of Seifer’s nonetheless.

Knighthood; something he had talked about for a long time. When he broke out of the disciplinary committee room, he had taken nothing but his gunblade and his pride along with him. Quistis had been forced to chase him all the way to Timber. She remembered watching, frozen and powerless, as he joined forces with the Sorceress. Later, she’d had the misfortune of being taunted by him in their showdown at Galbadia Garden, the taunt ringing in her ears:

"Instructor Trepe, I'm still one of your dearest students, aren't I?" to which she’d tartly replied: “Not anymore.” Brandishing her whip, she’d then cracked it at him, waiting for Squall’s orders to fight Seifer. They’d beaten him soundly, and then faced Sorceress Edea and Seifer once more. For all his taunts, Quistis remembered how terrible his face had looked after the successive defeats. He’d not shown a lick of remorse, and it was that which had scared her—realising that she was facing a man who had nothing, absolutely nothing, to lose.

Laguna sighed, watching the emotions that flickered across Quistis’ face, watching the way she played with the strands of hair in front of her eyes. He watched as she bit her lip unconsciously, toying and worrying at her bottom lip. He saw her face flush briefly for a moment, as though she was remembering some little memory. All Laguna wanted for the incredibly talented woman sitting across from him was someone she could love. He knew too well the pain of losing someone he loved. Raine’s death still hurt him when he thought about it, the guilt and the remorse of not being by her side as she gave birth to Squall, their lasting legacy upon the world. For Squall had been their legacy, and now, ten years after their first meeting, Squall regularly visited his father. But that was for another story, that. It was mainly on Quistis that Laguna was focussing currently, on Quistis and Seifer. He stubbed out his cigarette. Smiling at the faraway look in Quistis’s eyes, he was glad that she was at least considering the idea. He stood up and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She smiled at him before he left her, sitting outside the café. “I’ll be in my office if you need me, Quistis,” he said gently, as he waved goodbye.

“Thank you, Laguna,” Quistis said absently, her mind on the past. She looked at him as he left, hurrying along the blue-toned streets of Esthar that even now sparkled with the electrical currents that ran underneath. Smiling, she finished what remained of her lunch. Hurrying to the counter to pay, she almost spilt her latte on her crisp blouse. The way back to her office took her through several side streets of Esthar, past the Esthar fresh food markets, where the pungent aromas of fried fish and rotting vegetables, herbs and spices wafted through. She honestly didn’t mind the scent now, but it’d caused several bouts of nausea the first few weeks that she’d passed through the marketplace. Her hand reached into her pocket for her security pass as she walked up to the main gate of the building where she worked. Swiping the pass against the magnetic strip that verified the person’s identity and permissions to enter, she watched as the gate swung open, before walking through and pressing a fingerprint identifier to close it. Reaching the door of her office, Quistis fumbled through her handbag for the door keys, and, finally locating the lanyard, she grabbed it and opened the door.

She flipped on the lights, blinking as the dark room became flooded with artificial sunlight. The terminal on her desk beeped, and Quistis knew she had a few unread messages and several pieces of important information come through while she’d been at lunch. Yet there was something else as she cast her eyes around her office, a small vase with flowers sitting smack-dab in the middle of her desk, a white piece of folded card next to it with her name on it in a messy scrawl. Picking up the card, she noted the handwriting-- familiar in the way that she knew it, but she couldn’t quite place it. It was a poem, written in what appeared to be free-verse format.

Her eyes started to tear up, before she realised the words were blurry. Quistis’s mind flooded with memories of them as younger people, younger and happier, with less cares in the world. It reminded her of days spent at Garden, before the bullshit with Seifer’s ambitions had started, before anything like another Sorceress War was on the horizon. Her hands shook as she sniffled and reached for a tissue and they shook as she blew her nose. Her entire body seemed to have gone into a state of disbelief and shock. Having calmed down sufficiently enough, Quistis searched the office briefly, before noticing that the door to her cloak cupboard wasn’t closed properly. Pulling it open, she noticed an emaciated figure staring out at her from familiar eyes and a familiar scar wound down the bridge of his nose. Then the emaciated man spoke, and it was confirmed. Seifer Almasy. In the flesh. In her office. Hiding in her cupboard like some child playing hide-and-seek.

“Hello, Quistis,” he said.

A/N: I changed several things during the rewrite: namely, names etc. Síla is pronounced much the same way as Sheila is. Shee-lah. I must admit that I used the dialogue from the game, which came from Icy Brian and was transcribed by LightSoul.

HA!

quistrepe — Wed, 17 May 2006 01:51:15 GMT

I had a slight victory with my dad over going to Sydney. I told him that I really wanted to spend time with both him and Simon, and dad said he'd talk to Julie about it and get back to me. HA! I'm so pleased I managed to talk to him about it.
*insert FF7 Victory Music Here*

In other news, there's nothing wrong with my vagina. It's just a lube issue-- I thought that might be the case, but I took the time to make an appointment with Dr Hilton about it and yesterday was when I went. Penetration, I'm hoping, will be possible one day, cause she was able to get a small speculum in without any difficulties-- so yeah, it must just be that we're not using enough lube.

Playing FF9 currently. I'm reminded why I've beaten the game so many times, and that is because of the story. Like I said to mum, the characters from ff8 have stayed with me, but it's the story from Final Fantasy IX that makes it my favourite Final Fantasy so far. Although FF7 does come in a very close second. Am already up to going to Memoria, just gotta beat the dragon in the Iifa Tree again.

"Do not fret! Your captain is about to enter Valhalla. You are a Pluto Knight-- now act like one"-- Beatrix of Alexandria.

*__________*

quistrepe — Sat, 25 Feb 2006 15:45:14 GMT

Hail Mary full of grace....

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Someone running up the stairs, urgent footsteps, hurried. The clock on the wall clicks on, each second a heady rush against time. The noise of the person on the stairs grows louder with each passing second.

The lord is with thee...

Silence. The laboured breathing of a nun hard at work in a convent. Her rosary hangs at her waist, the cross simple, her wimple askew. The priests are there, and they are overseeing something.

Blessed art thou amongst women...

A mother straining against the leather ties that bind her to a bed. Sweat drips from her, her face red with exertion. She wants this child out--- doesn't understand why Eve's curse is so strong.

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus...

An old woman holds a new baby. Delight floods her face. She inhales the child's scent, marvels in it's soft skin. Knows that she herself is past childbearing and yet still takes joy in the life of others.

Hail Mary mother of God....

The cold steel of a gun. A child with a weapon. Ten dead. It's a scene that horrifies the nation.

Pray for us sinners now....

On Death Row, a man is being blessed by a priest. His face is worn and wrinkled, beaten by sun and the elements. He knows he's sinned, wants to leave this world behind.

And at the hour of our death....

Silence. The world mourns. A great person has died, and the public outpouring of grief is enough to stop the world. International leaders pay tribute to this great person, praising their kindness, compassion, the selflessness of their work.

Amen.

quistrepe — Sat, 28 Jan 2006 03:08:57 GMT

Very old fic of mine, written in approximately 2001-2002, not sure which year oh gawd, that is wrong that I can't remember the year I wrote this.

Down the river's dim expanse

Quistis stood shivering at the edge of Obel Lake, undecided in her course of action, or even plan for the future. All she knew was that she desperately wanted to love someone, who would never love her in return. The fact that she knew that, the fact that her pain was so searing, so bright, made it worse. She didn't want to die, yet she didn't want to live.

You can do this, Quistis, she told herself firmly, shaking away the doubts and fears that clouded her mind.

Like some bold seer in a trance

She stepped out into the icy waters of the lake, not caring about the coldness of the water. A slight breeze whispered through the treetops, caressing her long blonde hair, as it cooled the water even more.

Seeing all his own mischance

Slowly Quistis decided to step deeper into the lake, her long dress of white samite billowing in the wind with every step she took. Her steps became less certain with each wave of cold water rushing at her feet. She stopped suddenly at the sound of battle close at hand. She glanced once more at the form of Seifer Almasy, and her lips began to move, quoting an ancient curse that was used at one stage to kill those who did not love the woman.

With a glassy countenance

Her footsteps became clumsier in the deep water where she foolishly stepped, her feet slipping on rocks, but still standing upright. She remained in the position she originally began in. Her feet were getting bluer by the minute.

Did she look down to Camelot

Camelot. It had all begun there, with the defiant nature of Hyne's own creation of Sorceresses, the one and only Morganna le Faye gave birth to Quistis Trepe. It was then that Quistis's cursed life had begun. She bade one last farewell to her home of Balamb, which had served as her home for almost an aeon. She smiled softly as she reached her destination. A small fisherman's boat lay afloat near where Quistis stood. The curse had almost been fulfilled.

And at the closing of the day

Quistis smiled once more, as she hopped in the boat, careful not to get the long heavy linen gown wetter than what it already was. She lay down in the boat as the current grew stronger under her magical powers.

She loosed the chain, and down she lay

The tide ebbed softly under the boat. Quistis Trepe, the last remaining Sorceress of le Faye's order opened her mouth, but no sound came out as she moved her lips, as if to say 'fare thee well. I shall always be watching thee'. Her life was ending quickly, such was the mercy of her curse and, in some ways, to Quistis it was a blessing.

The broad stream bore her far away

The boat floated down the lake, as it was gently guided by le Faye's Sorcerey. She wanted the boat to go to the fabled Camelot that was only read about in the ledgends, but Quistis knew where it existed.

The Lady of Shalott

The boat slowly passed under the trees surrounding the dens where there had once been the war where Timber had lost its independance to Galbadia. The water moved slowly, as though the river was tired of its eternal wanderings, and like the figure in the boat, it wished for solitude through death.

Lying, robed in snowy white

The boat's occupant lay still, as though locked in a trance so deep that if you woke them from their meditation, there would be all of eternity to pay for that folly. Her breathing was becoming erratic out in the cold.

That loosely flew to left and right

The boat floated desolately in the water. There was hardly any current, making the death harder for Quistis to go through with. She thought about going back. going back to SeeD, and telling them of her desperation, but knew she couldn't. There would be consequences of her foolish actions if she did. Her breathing became ragged, as she closed her eyes.

The leaves upon her falling light

It was a cold autumn night, the trees blew their leaves upon Quistis, causing her to shiver. But it didn't matter any longer. Quistis was dying slowly.

And through the noises of the night

The boat suddenly came to a stop. Quistis was startled by the sudden stop of the boat. Her magic did not seem to work here at all. No, it did not. Her face appeared haggard in the harsh early light of the morning. She could still hear the battle that was raging, and she knew she was closer to Balamb than she thought. 'Soon, I will be gone,' Quistis thought, 'there will be no Quistis Trepe again. I am free of my curse when I die.'

She floated down to Camelot

The boat floated once more, thanks to the power that Quistis still had. Her breathing became shallow as she floated down the river, her lips moving in a silent plea to Hyne.

And as the boat-head wound along

Her legs were already blue, then the body, then her arms. She knew she was dying of hypothermia, and she had intended to. She stretched her arms out, but her arms refused to move. Her death by suicide was not going quite so well to plan.

The willowy hills and fields among

A small tear dropped down out of her blue eyes, making it hard for her to concentrate. Her main idea was death. It was not happening the way she expected it, or planned it. Her smile was forced as she sat up in the boat, looking out wearily in the moonlit night.

They heard her singing her last song

Quistis opened her mouth, and began to sing softly. It was the song that had haunted Quistis ever since she first heard it in the halls of Camelot, as a small girl.

The Lady of Shalott.

Her chanted song was holy, a homily to Hyne and to her mother, Morganna le Faye. She sang softly, the song echoing in the boat, then began to sing loudly, making all the world hear her.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy

The people fighting stopped, hearing the phantom voice of Quistis Trepe le Faye. The voice was more than what they could bear, and the fighting stopped almost immediately after the boat had passed through the small islet.

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly

The boat floated nearby, the water being shallow where the boat lay. Quistis was almost dead, her blood freezing slowly. Her eyes were darkening, her blue eyes, the ones that used to smile at Selphie's everfervescent nature, the eyes that held pain for Squall's leaving her for the weak, deluded Sorceress Rinoa, the eyes that held joy for Zell, her one true friend, the eyes that showed amusement at Irvine's pranks, the eyes that were always misted when talking about Ellone, the eyes that always seemed to be sad when she saw Irvine with other women, her pain was all for Selphie on those occasions.

'Till her blood was frozen slowly,

Her eyes glazed over, her life was over, it seemed. But she was still breathing and living. Singing, even.

And her eyes were darkened wholly

"So here is the life, the greatest of them all...And yet I throw it away" Quistis whispered, fighting between wanting to die, and wanting to remain on this land. But she knew the future if she was to remain on the earth. Her love for Seifer would eventually become the ruin of her life, and so it was better for her to die. She closed her eyes.

Turned to towered Camelot

At last the boat reached its destination. A small islet close to the Balamb fishing docks. Surely someone would see her boat and report her in the morning. At least that way she'd get a decent burrial. If not, then Quistis was happy to have the rodents gnaw away at her body for as long as it survived.

For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the waterside

Her voice suddenly failed her, Quistis Trepe, the last Sorceress of Morganna le Faye's order had died. She was no longer of this world.

Singing in her song she died.
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony
By garden wall and gallery
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came
Knight and burgher, lord and dame
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott

And who is this?. And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer,
And they crossed themeslves with fear
All the knights at Camelot
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, 'she has a lovely face
God in his mercy lend her grace
The Lady of Shalott'.

Fallen in a Day

quistrepe — Sat, 03 Dec 2005 00:38:33 GMT

Title: Fallen in a Day
Fandom: TNG-verse
Characters: Christian and Algernon Forsyth

Seven invaders at seven gates seven defenders
Spoiled of their bronze for a tribute to Zeus; save two
Luckless brothers in one fight matched together
And in one death laid low.
--Antigone.

The shields, bright and shiny, clattered to the grass as the two men, former friends and brothers in arms, fought viciously with swords. The metal clanged, the blades bright from the light peeking out from behind grey curtains of rain. They were wet and cold, yet it didn't distract them. Blood poured from a cut on one man's face, the other one clearly gaining the upper hand. Blade met blade-- the cold hiss of steel singing.

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, CHRISTIAN?" the younger one taunted, shouting as the man called Christian parried a blow, feinted and ducked to the left to land a slice on the other man's kidneys.

"Your stupidity, little brother, never ceases to astound me," he chuckled wryly, carefully guarding himself from his adversary's attacks. They were more than just former friends and former brothers in arms-- they were brothers by blood. Yet Christian no longer counted Algernon as a brother. The hiss of steel on steel again made the otherwise silent battlefield ring out.

Another hiss of steel meeting steel, both men equally matched for skill and stamina. The older one was gaining the upper hand, his blade pressed at the hollow of Algernon's throat. "Die," he whispered through clenched teeth, wanting it to be over, to go home, or even if he himself were slain, he'd be given a hero's welcome in the home of the Norse Gods, the hall of the slain, Valhalla. Christian believed that Valhalla existed.

With a deft cut, Algernon managed to cut his brother across the vital areas, heading for death. They both fell, hatred burning still in their yet-beating hearts, the blood leaving them as they bled on the field. Their death came to them.

After the fighting was over, the women came down to the battlefield, hoping against hope that a brother, father, husband or best friend wasn't lying there, dead. They bore the bodies away, washing them, crying as they identified the men on the field. Nobody wept for Algernon, none save his mother. The entire world wept for Christian. When the boatsmen came for the bodies, Algernon's was thrown unceremoniously into one, without the coin for the ferryman.

Christian had been a hero. He was given proper funeral rites, the honour accorded to one such as he was only given to those loved and cherished by the gods. The ferryman's coins were placed over his eyes, petals surrounded him, his sword clasped in his grip along the length of his body. When night fell, the archers lit their arrows, sending them high into the blackness of the sky. One of them caught the sail, and they smiled. Their hero had gone to Valhalla.

Literary Nonsense 2

quistrepe — Tue, 25 Oct 2005 05:25:06 GMT

The intersection divided them. One side held the ancient graves, desecrated, desolate. The girl ran towards a noise she heard, but found nothing but the whispering wind, the trees looming large and the cobblestones slapping beneath her bare feet. It was a bad idea, she knew, going through the graveyard barefoot. The graves seemed to grow larger out of the fog, the mist and rain creating nearly impossible labyrinth to navigate. Still she ran, not looking back behind her. Her skirt tripped her up, and she fell on the hard stone path. Cursing, the girl stood, not realising that there was blood on her hands.

Palms stinging from the impact, she clasped her hand around the crucifix at her neck, muttering an incantation in a forgotten language. From her left, she could hear the terrified whinnying of horses, the clattering of hoof-beats; the iron shod horses louder and louder as the thing she was fleeing from caught up with her. With a barely muted cry of alarm, the girl flung herself off towards the mausoleum. The hooded rider dismounted. Reached into his cloak for a dagger, and stabbed her. Blood gushed out, staining her white bodice, and she died gracefully.

Explanation: celebren and I were talking over MSN. I'd been helping Rachel write something, and the idea for a challenge of double-drabbles came into Juls's head. I found us the picture, which Juls has linked to in her lj, and we wrote it from there.

Literary Nonsense 1

quistrepe — Tue, 25 Oct 2005 02:32:46 GMT

London wondered when he'd become so jaded. He stood in front of a headstone, hands clenched into fists, reading the name on it. It'd been so long. So fucking long ago, and yet the memories of that fight with him-- the one who was now lying dead in a coffin-- seemed to come flooding back. It is only after a few moments that London realised that he wasn't alone. To his left, he spotted a shape, a slender, feminine shape. But the wind, howling through the trees, caressing the graves as though they were a child, is the only noise in the otherwise silent graveyard.