Finally

Fiction it is. If you still have more to say on Priorities posts One or Two, feel free to go do that.

And now, for some more about everybody's favorite gay couple. Comment if you feel like it. I don't expect fifty, but a dozen would be nice.


-------------------


Confident that Ellis was going to be alright, Biter drifted into a light slumber for the first time since beginning his bedside vigil. Devon looked at the hard-bitten old warrior with eyes filled with empathy; he didn't know what had passed between the two Guardsmen, but he knew their bond was easily as deep as that between him and Parry.

Parry. Devon's gaze drifted to him. He looked healthier every moment, but still his complexion was deathly pallid. His right arm was alive as it had not been scant hours before, but it still it rested limp at his side. The flesh was no longer rotten; instead, it was new, smooth as an infant's and just as fragile. Parry met Devon's eyes with a warm smile.

"You've watched over me all day, haven't you?" Parry asked. His voice, like the rest of him, was at some stage between terrible hurt and normalcy. Hoarse, but not nearly so ragged as it had been on his first awakening.

Devon shrugged at the question. "Of course," he said simply.

Parry hesitated, considering his words carefully. "...Thank you," he finally said.

Devon sat at Parry's side and gently took one of his lover's hands into his own. "You saved my life. It wasn't in my power to return the debt, but the least I could do was watch to be sure your condition didn't worsen."

Parry nodded, but his eyes spoke more to Devon than his gesture. Something in Devon's words had saddened him. Hurt him. "What did I say?" Devon asked, confused. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," Parry said. He smiled weakly, but still his eyes were filled with pain.

Devon fell silent. Arguing would solve nothing. Better to think on what he'd said and discern for himself what had upset Parry so. And as soon as he took a moment of introspection, he understood.

"I care more about you than anyone I've ever met," Devon blurted out. "And I don't want to lose you."

Parry was rendered speechless, but Devon again looked into his eyes and saw the truth: the pain was gone. Devon grinned, leaned over and threw his arms around Parry, draping his body over his lover. Parry coughed as the wind was knocked from him, but he returned the embrace. Hesitantly, Devon sat back up.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," Parry murmured. "Devon, I came here to for a purpose, which you well know. I— there's so much you don't know about me, and I can't spare the time to tell you now."

"Then you'll tell me later. It doesn't matter," Devon said.

Parry shook his head. "You don't understand. There may not be a later. The Pestilent— many men died, the last time the Pestilent was bound. Victory may be beyond my power, and even if I succeed, I may not survive."

Devon was unfazed. "You will."

"I'm not a god, Devon!" Parry said angrily. His throat burned when he raised his voice, but he paid it no heed. "I am a man, a mortal. The Pestilent is not. Your faith is misplaced."

"It isn't faith," Devon said quietly. "It's hope."

Parry sighed. "I hope I'll live, too, Devon. You said you don't want to lose me, well, I don't want to lose you, either. Or be lost to you. But the fact is, I've delayed to long. If the Pestilent has gained the strength to summon the Breath of the East, then in all likelihood it has already unleashed its plague. And every man that falls to the Pestilent's virulence will add fuel to the demon's power. Every moment I lie here, its strength grows. It was unreasonable to think I could stop it alone to begin with, but now, it's sheer folly. I'd need other sorcerers. A cabal. But there isn't any, not in Graymere. There hasn't been for centuries. I don't think I have the power to save this city, anymore."

His words were terrifying. Parry was a hero, of this much Devon was sure. Yet now, it seemed he was not hero enough. What could be done? Even as Devon wracked his mind for solutions, he had thought of one. It was ludicrous, but there was nothing else for it.

"Parry..." Devon began tentatively.

"Aye?"

"What does it take to— to learn magic? Can anyone do it?" Even as the words came out of his mouth, Devon knew they were laughable.

Parry looked at him sharply. He was not laughing. "What?"

Devon met Parry's gaze resolutely. He'd gone this far, he knew he may as well say what was in his mind. "What does it take? Could you teach me?"

Devon looked into his face, trying to see the inevitable reaction: Pity. Magic was out of Devon's grasp, he knew it, but even still, he clung to hope. But as he watched Parry's countenance, he realized that there was not a shred of pity in him. No, the emotion Devon saw was quite different. Fear.

"No." Parry said. "I could not. Please, don't ask that of me. You have a life here, Devon. I should never have interfered with it, I know that now, but it's too late. I'm sorry. But there is no way I will bring a burden like that upon your shoulders. Do you understand?"

Parry's words were clear, and, to Devon, their meaning was even clearer. He could learn it. Parry wasn't saying it was impossible, he was saying he refused. "What life do you imagine you interfered in?" Devon asked. "You know my livelihood. You said you had it yourself, once. You know what it's like, letting people you despise have their way with you. And now you claim that making me a sorcerer would be a burden?"

Parry shook his head. "Aye, I know what your life is like. I lived it. And I have lived this other life as well, and I will tell you truly: Until I came to this city, I was happier in my old life."

"How can that be?" Devon said, bewildered. "You have power few men even dream of—"

"And dangers surpassing anything in man's worst nightmare," Parry finished. "I am going to face a Pestilent, Devon. Think of your deepest fear, your greatest dread. The Pestilent is a thousand times more terrible. And when I fail, Devon, I will not die. It will consume my essence and cast me into Nether, to spend an eternity in torment. I am not a soldier, and it will not be a battle. It will not even be a slaughter. It will be a clash of spirits, and that is more painful than anything that can be imagined by one who has not experienced it. I would not wish the life of a sorcerer on anyone, Devon, least of all one I love so dearly as you."

At first, Devon was speechless. But as he looked at Parry, lying there, so wounded, so full of despair, his voice returned. "I already cast aside my old life, Parry. And angered no few people in doing so, either. I knew it that first day, when you showed me what you truly are. There is nothing else for me in this world, and if you don't teach me, I'll find another sorcerer who will."

The sorcerer paled. "Gods, Devon, you don't know what you're saying. Please, don't ask this of me."

"Even if I didn't, Parry, I'd still die when the Pestilent comes into its full power, wouldn't I? So give me a fighting chance. Let me stand at your side!"

"There are things worse than death," Parry said. "Falling with me included. I'm sorry. I can't condemn you to that."

Devon's nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed. "I love you, Parry. But I love myself more. I don't wish for a pleasant death any more than I wish for an eternity of hell. I wish for life, and I think I'll get fighting by your side. I don't want to stand by like a helpless bloody child and watch while you go to die alone! I have a right to defend myself, but I need your help before I can. Please!"

"I'm truly sorry, Devon," Parry said, closing his eyes. "I can't."

Devon gave Parry a look of helpless rage. Though the sorcerer could not see it, he felt it clearly. Impotent, frustrated anger. He felt betrayed, and helpless. Parry wanted to help, but he knew the only way Devon would be assuaged would, ultimately, cause a far more terrible end.

"As you wish," Devon said, his voice choked with anger and sorrow. "Like I said, I'll find someone who can." With that, the young man turned on his heel and left the shop without a backwards glance.

"Think you made a bad choice, mate," a haggard voice said.

Parry opened his eyes and glanced to the source; Ellis lay awake, looking critically at Parry. "How long were you listening?" Parry asked.

"Long enough to give cause to what I said, eh?" Ellis replied, his voice hoarse.

"You don't understand any more than he did," Parry said, rolling over to keep Ellis' piercing eyes off his own.

"Oh, I understand fine," Ellis rasped. "And you're right, like as not. Teachin' him would change a quick death into a long agony. So?"

Parry turned back to Ellis, looking at him incredulously. "So? So I won't inflict that on him!"

Ellis quirked an eyebrow at the sorcerer. "The lad's already in this up to his neck, wizard. Can that demon do to a normal man what you think it'll do to you?"

"Theoretically, I suppose," Parry conceded. "But it wouldn't have cause..."

"It knew you'd be on the streets today. You reckon it couldn't figure out who was near and dear to you?"
Parry felt like the ground had just been jerked out from under him, and he knew he looked it.

Ellis went on. "Then all you're doin' to him is bringing him into a situation unprotected, aye? Not the most loving thing to do."

"I hadn't— I hadn't considered that," Parry said uneasily.

"Aye, that's obvious. You're smart, Parry, but as you said yourself, you're no god."

Parry looked at Ellis searchingly. "How long were you listening?" He asked.

"You don't have the right to blindfold him," Ellis continued, ignoring the question. "You brought him into this. If you can better equip him to defend himself, you owe him that. You don't have the power to protect him from everything, mate. Give him the power to protect himself."

He was right, Parry knew. He'd let his emotions, his fear rule him, and it had driven Devon away. Parry could scarcely bear to let himself dwell on what Devon had said before he left. The only sorcerers in Graymere to learn from were himself, Simon... and the men who had unleashed the Pestilent. Devon couldn't possibly find them, not alone, wandering the streets. Yet, Parry knew, they could likely find him. And regardless of whether they chose to teach him their fell arts, or send Parry a message, Devon would be in terrible danger.

No, it was not safe on the streets of Graymere. Not now, not for someone leaving Simon's shop. Not for a lover of Parthan Keldane Parry sat up, and winced as he felt his body cry out against this exertion. Ellis looked at him, a question in his eyes.

"You're right," Parry said. He carefully swung his legs out of the blanket and over the side of the cot. Shakily, he placed his feet on the ground. His knees buckled when he tried to stand, and he fell back onto the bed. He tentatively infused himself with magic, being careful to only tap his own reserves, and lightly at that. The second time he stood, he did not fall.

Ellis was looking at him with a mixture of admiration and smug satisfaction. Parry smiled back, though without much mirth.

"You're right," he said again. "And I know it. And I need to bring him back."

* * *
 
¶ 4:51 PM

  Um

I do hope everyone who has or had something to say in the two Priorities posts managed to say it. Don't be turned off by the current, rather specific, debate going on in the comments. I'd be happy to respond to any other questions or comments. That's all.

And those of you who read the fiction, well, another post is coming along slowly. Be patient. 
¶ 12:31 AM

  Priorities, Part II

Warning: Same damn warning as the first part. For that matter, you should see the first part

I decided to write the follow up now, because I have about an hour to kill.

I will now elaborate on what I believe to be the causes for the trend I observed earlier.

They are tied to one fact, I believe, which is this: Most members of the TCSBC are former leftists. Almost universally, they began socially and politically left. Being socially left lends itself quite well to a superficial understanding of TCS, a sort of "treat everybody like a person and it'll be grooooovy, man!" mentality. From there, they expanded their views logically, until they became (to oversimplify and use some overused terms) socially liberal and fiscally conservative.

What does this have to do with the trend of being harsher on leftists with half-good ideas than righters with half-good ideas? I'm getting there. I think there are two major spinoffs here:

1. Been There, Done That. TCSBC members have experience with leftist views. They had them, and they understand them, and they know well what is wrong with them. They have the information that convinced them to change, no? They are in a unique position to criticize, because they understand the mentality in a way only one who has had it can. This reason makes sense.

2. I'm Not a Hippy, I Swear! Having once been leftists, many TCSBC members feel they are under a certain scrutiny from their purely right-wing companions. They are extra-harsh on leftists to, in a sense, prove they really mean this whole "right wing" thing. This reason makes less sense, but exists anyway.

There is one more reason, which was pointed out to me by someone else who can claim the credit if they wish (it isn't within my rights to name them without permission). I have mixed feelings about it. The reason given was this: "We think the war on terrorism is more important than anything else if push comes to shove."

While the war on terrorism is certainly important, I have extreme misgivings with classifying it as "more important than anything else." Barring, I suppose, nuclear war (which is always a possibility, but not a very likely one), terrorism is simply not as far-reaching as good parenting. Truly good parenting should continue on through the ages until none of your descendents have offspring, which theoretically means continue forever. It is perhaps hard to register the magnitude of that, but you should. If you truly parent well, your child will grow up with good enough theories to parent equally well (if not better). By parenting well you are creating a chain reaction that can last for millennia. The more people who parent well, the better the world will be, period. Even if a parent has bad entrenched theories in some areas (say, politics), if they parent well then their children can grow up without those entrenchments and be better people even than their parents.

I am not saying that criticizing good parents with bad other theories is a bad idea. It's a great idea. But not criticizing bad parents simply because their other theories are good is a horrible error, with serious repercussions for humankind as a whole.

These sweeping statements may be dramatic, but they are essentially true.

That is all. The hour has not been killed, but I did kick it in the beanbag. Such will have to suffice.
 
¶ 5:03 AM

  Priorites

Warning: This post is unashamedly about the TCS blogging community. If you are unfamiliar with said community (which I doubt, since virtually all of my commenters are involved in it), then this post will probably be confusing.

I have noticed a rather perplexing trend in the TCS blogging community (TCSBC from now on). However, before I elaborate, I should make something clear. The TCSBC holds a variety of views, both in the political and social spectrums (note that I'm aware social issues are in a very important sense political as well. 'Political' here refers to economic issues and foreign policy, mostly). The rather unique thing about the TCSBC, however, is that it's social views and political views are not normally found together. This means that, in many situations, a given member of the TCSBC will disagree on either political or social issues, but not both. This is fine; coherent disagreement generally helps theories improve.

Now, with that explained, I will go on to show you what has been confusing me.

You see, it seems like the priorities of the TCSBC lie much more with the political issues than with the social. This astounds me. For one thing, TCS itself, which every member identifies strongly with and supports, is entirely a social philosophy. (Yes, I am aware of the people who consider "TCS" to refer to the entire worldview associated thereof, and in such a case it goes beyond social issues. However, in this post I'm sticking with the more obvious, technical definition.)

In essence, I see every day TCSBC members happily promoting and lauding political pundits with terrible views on social issues. Here, I should remind you of what I said above: Social issues are political in the sense that they are a part of overall politics. Indeed, the pundits being touted speak out on economic issues, foreign policy, and social issues. And whenever they speak on social issues, they spew forth a stream of vile untruths. Yet only rarely does a member of the TCSBC actually call them on it. (Note: I know Gil has done it as well, especially in regards to Lileks, but I couldn't find the post. My apologies Gil.)

So what have I established so far? TCSBC members don't like arguing (futilely, in most cases, due to ridiculously deep entrenchment) about social issues with people who have good ideas on politics. They usually don't even condemn them. Alright, that's understandable, in a sense, since at least these people get some things right, so condemning them overmuch could be counterproductive.

Pay attention now, because this is where it gets interesting.

There exists another group. A group that agrees with the TCSBC on social issues, but disagrees on economics and foreign policy. And this group is almost always condemned by the TCSBC, or, at best, looked on with a sort of mild disdain.

Attachment Parenting is excellent and quite TCS with regards to infants. And when Alice or Camille support it, they are very quick to mention the aspects of it which they disagree with. When providing links to Instapundit or IMAO, however, they rarely add qualifiers like "Just try to ignore the fact that he's horribly abusive to children and wants to control women."

In effect, it seems the TCSBC has a specific set of priorities; namely, political ones. This seems utterly perverse to me, and now I have to go to class. I may post more on this later. 
¶ 5:04 PM

  Google Doesn't Know Me At All

I got a google hit for Mild Erotica for Lesbians. Um, yeah. Well, if you lesbians stick around, I'll try to accomodate you... somehow. I dunno. I like readers, and I like gay people, so I must love gay readers. Stay, please?

I was also hit for 'physically attractive'. That's funny.
 
¶ 2:39 AM

  Ack, Arg!

Good lord, it's nearly been a week!

And I've been too damn busy to write at all. That's sad. I'll have to remedy that soon, I swear, I will!

I have nothing useful to add at this time, except that I have a cold, and I have been away from home.

My apologies.
 
¶ 3:03 PM

  Arnie Update

Dawn, 57% of the people polled were for the bond thing (Guess there's a 1% margin of error), a number mentioned at the end of the article. So I return to my original statement: Odd headline.
 
¶ 5:25 PM

  Busy

Haven't been writing at all. I've been very busy trying to get into school. Did a bit of unwanted socializing over the weekend, and more is in sight (this is more wanted, which is good), so... yeah. Ill-timed socializing, considering school, but whatever.

Soundtracks from games like Diablo 2 and Icewind Dale are fucking awesome. And the Streets are hilarious. So there. I don't know.

I'll write soonish. And don't forget to start a totally unrelated discussion in the comments, that goes on for a good dozen or so. Even posts as meaningless as this one are more comment-worthy than a super-insightful post on some other, lesser (any), blog.

Remember that. Remember this, too:

Toodles.
 
¶ 3:48 PM

  Oh That Rascally Arnie!

So, I'm generally not one to buy into the "liberal media bias" conspiracy theory (or the "conservative media bias" conspiracy theory, for that matter... except in regards to Fox News). I think, by and large, journalists are just going for ratings/readers while keeping their employers (and advertisers) happy, which can mean any number of political agendas.

That said, I saw a rather odd headline this evening.

It read: Voters Don't Like Arnold's Bond Idea

The subheading read: Poll shows 44 percent would favor tax hikes and spending cuts instead

Um, wouldn't that mean that the majority of voters actually do like the bond idea, but that it was a pretty close call?

That's all. Oh, and threesomes rule.
 
¶ 1:55 AM

  Whooooo!

So first of all, have you read what I have to say about sex? If not, check it out, and leave a comment.

Second of all, thirty-one is here. It's creepy, too. Enjoy. Leave a comment here, too. I'm continuing with the extra spaces, since no one complained. I'd love some actual feedback about that, though.



-----------------


The lash snapped, slicing into pale, soft flesh with a crackling resonance. Rivulets of blood welled up from the wound, building up until they could defy gravity no longer. They trickled down, down, down before dripping onto the lush carpeted floor.

Elyse screamed, her body tensing, her hands pulling against taut leather restraints. The whip hissed through the air, kissing her back yet again, harder this time. The first blood did not well, rather it sprayed, arcing out of the wound and splattering against the floor. She screamed again, but it cut short as her breath came in short pants. She writhed as the lash whistled, and opened a wound on her bare buttock. Her scream became a moan, and she gasped again.

The lashes came faster now, but lighter, raising welts rather than scoring her flesh. Her gasps and moans came with the blows, and she fought against the restraints, to no avail. When she thought she could bear no more, relief came. She felt a burning heat build between her legs, and even her thighs were slicked. She screamed, her body shook, and rapture cascaded over her.

She felt, though she did not see, Rabith behind her. He caressed her roughly, tracing the cuts and welts he had raised, kneading her buttocks with seemingly little mind to her enjoyment. She writhed, pushing back against him as best she could, moaning his name. Finally, he entered her. She was more than willing to accommodate him. Her hands were still tied, but she thrashed against him rhythmically. He ran his hands over a cut on her shoulders, squeezing violently until blood oozed forth. As he thrust, he leaned forward to lap up the wound like a parched animal at a spring. She moved under his tongue, whimpering in ecstasy. He thrust fiercely; eliciting a sudden gasp, then withdrew and stabbed forward again, slamming into her with all his strength. He tightened his grip on her back, heedless of the bruise it caused, and clenched his other hand onto her hip, and spent his seed deep inside her.

Rabith held onto her for a while longer, his grip slowly loosening. Finally, he withdrew and untied her hands. Elyse twisted around, falling into his arms and pressing her lips against his with reckless ferocity. Their tongues dueled, and he knew she could taste her own blood in his mouth. Finally, he pushed her away. Unprepared, Elyse toppled backwards, hitting the floor with a dull thud. She looked up at him with a mixture of fear and desire; a look she had given him many times before.

"Enough," he said. "There is much that needs my attention, none of it you."

She glowered at that, and moved to her feet with feline grace. She went to a nearby cabinet and donned a translucent silken shift that. Sweat and blood made it cling to her tightly, and if anything it made her appear even more lewd than she had when undressed. Rabith ignored the stirring in his loins, and began pulling on his clothes.

"You've become a bore, love," Elyse complained. She absently reached behind her and rubbed the wound Rabith had clenched; she felt the bruise forming there, and winced. "An exciting bore, but a bore nonetheless," she concluded.

Rabith laced his leggings and yanked his doublet past his shoulders. He carefully smoothed it out before donning his belt. "And you," he said. "Have no measure for importance. Our dalliances are nothing but entertainment."

Elyse looked at him sharply. "And you mean to tell me that what's happening to Graymere is anything more than another entertaining game to you?"

Rabith smiled wanly. "Perhaps. But it's a game of far grander scope than ours."

She sighed, settling down on the bed, the shift sliding aside and baring one rigid, burning pink nipple. She was streaked with sweat, her face flushed, and he wanted nothing more than to throw himself upon her and ravish her again.

He stepped into his boots, stomping a few times to settle his heels. "Later. Wait up for me, or you'll wish you did,"

She smiled, affecting coyness. "You're so tender, dearest. Of course I'll be waiting."

Rabith nodded curtly, turned, and stepped out. He made his way down a hall, past a pair of guards, and down a narrow stairwell. He descended three flights, ending his journey in the catacombs beneath the Flamedancer. Here, he found two more guards; these were garbed in loose blue garments, at their sides they bore scimitars, and over shoulder each had slung a small rucksack. They did not so much as glance at Rabith as he passed. He ventured on, past a few open rooms filled with more men, uniformly outfitted, in various states of rest.

The door was large, and bound with iron bands. It swung open silently, on oiled hinge pins. Inside the air was musty, the light dim. Rabith's eyes adjusted instantly, aided when necessary by magic wielded as effortlessly as breathing. The room was permeated with an acrid scent; the smell of bile, and decay. It was sparsely furnished, sporting hard stone floors and only two hardbacked wooden chairs. One chair stood empty, but the other seated a humanoid, shrouded in several layers of black cloth.

Rabith fell to one knee, bowing his head in reverence. "Al thagi en olca-naerum," he intoned in the archaic gutturals of a language forgotten by all but the most learned of scholars. I give homage to the Pestilent.

The figure responded, its voice unlike anything a human could produce. It spoke in the same antiquated speech Rabith had used for his greeting, but its pronunciation was vastly more fluid. "Rise, infant," he said.

Rabith stood. "You summoned for me, father," Rabith stammered out, his accent in the ancient language heavy.

"Has the arcanist been persuaded to depart?" The figure asked. The voice twisted as it spoke, it's deep, flowing pronunciation cracking with another voice. A voice obviously borne of a haggard, tortured throat.

Rabith bowed his head. "To his shame, this infant has failed you in that, father," he said uneasily.

"That is known," The voice said. "The arcanist must be stopped soon, or our plans will become... complicated. The father does not desire complications. Is this known, infant?"

"It is known, father," Rabith replied instantly.

"The father is pleased with this, infant. The father feels the nether drawing at him. The father must consume all maggots in this place, or he will be banished. The father does not wish to go back."

"This infant does not wish to see the father go," came Rabith's response.

The shrouded figure seemed to nod. "The father has tasted the maggots of this place, infant. They are sour, and dissatisfying. But they will serve. When the father has had his fill, and he is bloated on their life essence, the nether will have no hold on him. He will go where he wills. Does this infant wish to journey beside him?" As he spoke, the father stood. He took a few steps towards Rabith, and Rabith could feel the sizzling essence that surrounded him.

Rabith could see the energy of the city react to this being's presence. It was as if the father was a cyclone, constantly sucking in ambient energy. It siphoned it in, burnt it, vomited on it, shat in it, then spewed it back out. Pure, clean magic coupled with the foulest essence Rabith had ever seen, swirling together in a beautiful mélange of malevolence and power.

Rabith felt a tear slide down his cheek. He was truly in the presence of a god. "This infant will follow the father to any land, and to any end."

"Then slay the arcanist, infant. With that finished, the father may feast without fear or reprimand, and he shall bring all loyal infants into their due."

Rabith nodded at shrouded figure. Buried beneath the cloth, he knew, was the tortured body of his former mentor, Hathas. Hathas had been given the ultimate privilege, though Rabith did not envy him that. He doubted that body's heart still beat, and he knew whatever consciousness Hathas still retained was slowly being subsumed by the greater entity that dwelt there. For, inhabiting that body, animating it, was his true master. His father, in essence if not in body. The doom of this land, and, he prayed, every other.

The Pestilent of Graymere.

* * *
 
¶ 1:04 AM

  Sex

Dawn told me to write about sex. I'm sure the flood of visitors Alice gave me has left by now, but I figure I'll do it anyway.

But, well, what do I have to say about sex beyond the obvious "It's pretty cool"?

A good question.

Well, I have an observation to make about heterosexual threesomes. That is, a threesome in which all parties are heterosexual (well, really, just one key party has to be heterosexual for this to be the case). That is: If one of the pair of same-genders is heterosexual, then it's really only a threesome to the lone-gender. Why should be apparent, but I'll spare another sentence to clarify.

Basically, let's say Stan, Kyle, and Wendy have a threesome. Stan is straight (Kyle's preferences are irrelevant, as long as he is at least Bi). In this situation, Stan and Kyle will both be doing their damndest to please Wendy (who will presumably be trying to entertain both guys simultaneously... an impressive feat, to be sure). So, as far as Stan and Kyle are concerned, it's only a threesome because someone else is there. It's purely a mental thing. Whereas, for Wendy, it's very much a physical thing too.

Okay, so that was more than a sentence.

Anyway, all this translates rather interestingly in the long term. It means that Wendy will, presumably, be having lots of fun. It means that Stan will be pretty much neutral, as he didn't really gain anything from the experience (assuming he isn't the jealous sort, in which case he'll actually feel negatively). And Kyle, being the newcomer, is not measuring the situation against having sex alone with Wendy, but rather against not having sex with Wendy at all... so Kyle, in all likelihood, is pro-threesome.

Obiously, switch the genders involved and it works just as well. I had the South Park analogy previously, and I decided to keep going with it. The point is simply that, assuming a straight person, threesomes are not equally fun for all involved. That's too bad. This is another reason I think the world would be a happier place if everyone was bisexual. Then everyone in the threesome can pleasure everyone else, and there's no hard feelings. Some hard other things, maybe, but the feelings are all very flaccid. Er, soft. Er, not hard. Whatever.

Anyway, that was a fun excercise. What else do I have to say about sex? Well, I stand by my statement before: Breasts are lovely. Or, for those of you who dislike the word "breast" (you know who you are): Boobies rule!

Toodles.
 
¶ 2:40 PM

  Oops

I was extremely lax in maintaining my links. I just added a link to Sections Twenty-Eight through Thirty.

Thirty-One is in the works.
 
¶ 6:09 PM

  Political Quickie

Alice posted a while ago (gimme a break, I've been busy. Getting busy, that is! Hahaha... anyway) listing off a number of people she agrees with politically. The post is here.

Anyway, I think she plans on updating her list. Until she does, I'll just say she's going to point out that most of the people she listed actually have lots of really vile political views. The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler is very anti-abortion, for instance.

Why did she say she never disagrees with them, then?

Because when she says "politics" she thinks "war on terror & economic policy"... and that's it. She has strong views on other things, but she often thinks of it as a given that those should be in the personal spectrum, not the political.

But to put them in the personal spectrum, you need to take them into account in your political views now. It's misleading to throw your lot in with staunch Republicans, because then you're supporting downright disgusting views on abortion and childrearing. And these are important issues, in my opinion. Honestly, I think they're more important.

At any rate, the lesson is: Be careful who you say you agree with.

As always, toodles.
 
¶ 4:53 PM

  Correction

So maybe it was what you thought. Ahem.

Toodles.
 
¶ 7:58 PM

  This Is Surreal

So, as of this moment, I am spending time with a friend, who I'll call Stan. His girlfriend is here, who's now called Wendy (I know the South Park Characters broke up, but I'm not trying to imply anything by these aliases). For the past 45 minutes or so, we have been involved in a rather... interesting activity...

But it's not what you think.

Wendy was interested in my story (the Supernatural-Homoerotica), and so I have been giving her a lengthy breakdown of its plot and characters. In the meantime, Stan and Wendy have been engaging in the amorous activities common to a boyfriend and girlfriend.

Well, not quite those activities. But yes, you're on the right track.

Anyway, I've only just told her about Parry breaking into the Hall of Index, so I'm going to post this and get back to my storytellin'.

Toodles.
 
¶ 5:26 PM

  A Test

First of all, here's a moderate update. Few pages, seems a LOT longer than it is.

Which is the test. I'm trying what Sierra does; that is, hitting return ('enter' for you PC users) twice after paragraphs. I'm doing this because blogger doesn't properly port tabs, so paragraphs have always looked a little cluttered.

If you like this change, say so. If not, definitely say so, because I'll probably keep this up if no one objects.

If people like it and I can muster the energy, I'll go back and fix every previous entry.

Anyway, here.



--------------------------------




He secured the perimeter with a sturdy shell; it would erode, but slowly. The next step was increasing the flow of energy, he could do little more with what meager reserves he retained. To that end, he reached out with suckling tendrils, seeking out essence to consume. He found it, near instantly, and drew it inward. He could feel It's influence, muddying otherwise pristine waters. It burned his fingers, but he paid that no heed. He drew the energy back through his shell, and felt the black taint slide away as it was sieved by his defenses. He knew that the taint had not gone, it had only been diminished, but such would have to do.

He set to work, now, with this, if not cleaned, then cleaner, essence. He went to the deepest parts of his tortured husk, the inner mechanics, dead now, that were meant to keep his body alive. He opened a channel. With one mental 'hand' let the energy flow in measured jets, and with another he methodically turned that raw power into a physical, curative product. It felt an eternity before he noticed results, but they came nonetheless. The fleshy tissue swelled, shook, and began to function once again.

He turned to another withered organ, and began anew. It went faster, now, and he realized this mass of blood and flesh was much like the last. Some part of his mind recognized it, called it "Lung," but he was beyond the need for labels at this stage. He finished quickly, and again sought out more damaged tissue to repair.

He felt something at his perimeter, prodding, testing. It was nothing, just the other spirit questioning him again. It could not break the shell, nor, likely, would it dare try. It had been cowed, that much was readily apparent.

He labored on, moving from the deep tissues to those nearer the surface. He found, in one place, a mass of rotten flesh. The foul winds had wormed deep, here, and there was naught to do but remove the area in its entirety. That task was daunting, however. In preparation, he drained a heady gulp of energy from the maelstrom below him, sifting out the corrupted influence with meticulous diligence.

He molded the energy into a thinly honed blade, and set to work. The putrid tissue was carved away like butter, falling in thick gobbets. The pain was otherworldly, and indeed may as well have been in another world for the mind he paid it. His job was paramount in his thoughts, and he toiled until he had finished. As the corrupted flesh was excised, he set to work shaping yet more energy. This he did not craft into healing agents or medical blades, but instead transformed raw magic into pure, living tissue.

The effort it took was colossal, the concentration near total. But the more he worked, the easier it became. His consciousness, he felt, was coming loose of the tiny capsule it had been held in. His body could hold him once again. He cut away yet more of his earthly body, and replaced it with flesh no less corporeal, but borne of his own resolve. None could say that Parthan Keldane did not have the will to survive.

Suddenly, he began to shake. He checked his shell and found it unsullied, checked the magicks around him and found them no less or more chaotic than moments before. The shaking continued vigorously, thoroughly confusing him. Finally, he thought to check his body.

Parry’s eyes fluttered open, and he found Devon standing over him, shaking him roughly.

“Parry! You’re awake! Thank the gods!” Devon exclaimed.

Parry managed a feeble smile back. “Aye, I am,” he said. “Why were you shaking me?”

Devon looked at him with a mixture of awe and bewilderment. “You— I thought you were dying.”

“Why would you think that?” Parry asked.

In answer, Devon reached down to Parry’s side and lifted up… something. It took Parry a moment to realize it was a hunk of his own flesh, gray, rotten and dead.

“Gods be good,” Parry whispered. As he saw the flesh, he suddenly became aware that large portions of his body, including near all his right arm, felt odd. The skin was stretched firm, and tender. He’d truly done it, then.

“It just began sloughing off,” Devon said. “And— new skin, grew to replace it. I didn’t know what was happening. But you’re alright, aye?”

Parry nodded. “Aye, I’m alright,” he said. He glanced awkwardly around the room, trying to take in his surroundings without lifting his head.

He could see, in the edge of his periphery, Ellis. The Guardsman lay prone on a modest cot, asleep, a pile of blankets atop him. No few feet away stood Biter. The grizzled man had removed his mail hauberk and sword, and leaned against the wall, half dozing. Simon was out of sight, though a tentative extension of magical senses placed him not far away, in an adjoining room.

“How long was I asleep?” Parry asked.

“Hours. It’s near dusk, now,” Devon replied.

The room, Parry noted, was illuminated by a score of fat tallow candles. Its sole window was out of his line of sight, but he could see only the meekest rays of sunlight lighting the far wall.

“ Simon says you weren’t properly sleeping,” Devon said. “But rather, in some sort of sorcerer’s coma. I suppose that accounts for— what happened?”

Parry nodded. “You have the right of it. As does Simon, on that at least. Though little else, if he’s still saying what he was before I slept.”

Devon shook his head. “He’s kept to himself, except to give Ellis a tonic every hour. When I asked why he wasn’t giving the same to you, he told me you didn’t need it.”

“I don’t,” Parry said bluntly. His gaze moved to Ellis. “How is he?”

Devon’s expression turned worrisome. “Not well, that’s for sure. He’ll live, but not much else is certain.”

“And neither you nor Biter have left our sides?” Parry asked.

Devon shook his head emphatically, and Parry saw Biter give a mild shrug. The two Guardsmen seemed awfully close to Parry’s eye; was that a brotherly sort of camaraderie, or something deeper?

Parry looked at Ellis again. “He carried me out, didn’t he?” He asked, his voice so soft as to be almost inaudible.

“Aye,” Biter said, coming to attention and taking a few steps towards Parry. “Aye, that he did.”

“How?” Parry asked, dumbfounded.

“That old wizard worked some sort of protection over him. Or, tried… Ellis left before it was finished.”

“A half-finished shield? With that, he braved the Breath of the East?” Parry was incredulous.

“I don’t know much about any Breath, nor does he. But, aye, I reckon that’s exactly what he did. Ellis always was a tough bastard.”

Parry closed his eyes, and for a moment, it looked as though he’d fallen asleep.

Then, he raised his left arm, feebly, and extended it towards Ellis.

“Give me his hand,” Parry commanded.

Biter was quick to obey, though he had to scoot Ellis’ cot a good foot closer to Parry before their hands touched.

Parry’s brow furrowed, and where his hand touched Ellis, blue phosphorescence blossomed. The air was filled with a low thrum, and Ellis twitched.

“What the hell is he doing?” Simon demanded from the doorway. He took a step towards Parry’s bed, and found himself obstructed by both Devon and Biter, standing resolutely. Devon was the taller of the two, but Biter was broader by half, and neither looked willing to let the old sorcerer pass.

“Fine! Do as you wish. But you condemn him,” he pointed at Ellis’ limp form. “Anything that man touches is corrupted!” He whirled around and strode out of the room without another word.

The two defenders, comrades for the moment, at least, turned back to their fallen. The glow had brightened, and Ellis’ twitching had quickened. He twisted, casting off a layer of blankets, and tangling another between his legs. Biter moved to his side in an instant. To Devon’s surprise, the Guardsman took Ellis’ calloused, rough hand into his own similarly coarse grip, and Ellis’ thrashing diminished.

Devon positioned himself alongside Parry, but he saw that his lover’s free hand was clenched in a fist, and held rigid at his side. Parry’s entire body was tense, a bead of sweat formed on his brow and made a slow descent down his temple.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the ghostly illumination vanished. The hum receded, and Parry’s body went slack. Still, however, he held tightly to Ellis’ hand. He opened his eyes, and managed a meek smile at Devon’s concerned expression. He tilted his head, meeting Biter’s eye.

“Is he…?” Biter asked, his voice uncharacteristically shaky for one so nonchalantly confident.

Parry smiled. “You were right,” He said. “He’s a tough bastard.”

* * *
 
¶ 4:56 PM

  What the Fuck is Wrong With Vulgarity?

I was just playing some D&D, online. The DM was total garbage.

Anyway, another player complained about my character. Basically, because my character is a crude, rude, vulgar S.O.B. and I throw off his cool, dramatic groove.

What really shits me though, is that he fucking accused me of poor roleplaying.

Why is it that saying "cock" means you're a bad roleplayer? I don't get it. Roleplaying is about playing a role. The role I chose was an obnoxious, crude asshole. If you don't like the role, that's one thing. But don't fucking tell me I didn't pull it off right.

A man asked me where I hail from. My response:

"Here and there. My fingers and my head I got on the streets of Ackabar. My fists and feet, in the Winding Wood. And my cock, that came forged by the hands of a dozen Dwarven smiths."

Now, as reference, Ackabar is where he learned to steal, and survive by cunning. In the Winding Wood, he studying unarmed fighting (and is now a master of it). And he's never had anything to do with Dwarven smiths.

The last part was a joke. It was his brag. He's not a gentle fellow. That's who he is, and I'll be damned if I'll let myself be accused of poor roleplaying simply because I don't follow a set formula (which is actually, in my opinion, a good example of bad roleplaying.)

Anyway, that's all for now. I've successfully alienated my last 5 readers.
 
¶ 12:35 AM

  I Feel Better, and Worse, Now

Kickin' it with my homies did help.

Moving couches, tables, and other shit all fucking day yesterday did not.

They had no advil, either. I had a headache for about three or four hours. In the end, while waiting to be picked up in the cold, I was actually whimpering.

Anyway, haven't been home... at all, really. Hopefully I'll write today, and then maybe some of my readers will come back. 
¶ 1:10 PM