(no subject)

Well, it's nice to know there's some truth to the gospel of cheesiness.

I could take this in two possible ways.

I could moan and complain about the oblivious and fickle and unappreciative nature of all men and whine in indignation and scorn for the fate that prompted the only interesting guys at the table to sit at the end opposite from me after staying across from me and Fiona for a mere hour and bombarding us with HS-level jokes, until Corita and her blond, pretty, skinny, college-sophomore violist daughter arrived and they could both crowd around and entertain her, leaving us to feel abandoned and shoot crumpled-up pieces of sweetener wrapper through a straw at Salad.

Or I could exult in the fun it was to shoot him and the attention he brought back to us, and the ideas I received (with all appearance of reluctance and disgust) from the explanation of an inside joke that he and Fi had that was a little like a combination of a fic I read and a dream I had, and acknowledge that he doesn't owe me anything anyway and I have no cause, or even right, to pine when he turns his avuncular attention on another, more attractive half-his-age disciple of his nihilist svengaliism, insignificant and hopeless fuzzheaded teenager that I am.

How trite am I? Wow, I'm jealous. Somebody kill me. Especially if he finds out, or I'll be teased unmercifully. Don't let me dream about their inside joke or I'll have to write it down, let him read it, and be teased unmercifully anyway. Y'know, when they get married and I still don't tell them, it's probably gonna require therapy.

And what makes me think he doesn't already know and is just kind enough to tease me about it so it looks like he doesn't?

(no subject)

I'm gonna try for Eclipse at Epilogue.

(no subject)

No Epilogue acceptance. What's ganbatte mean? Japanese?

(no subject)

1589 out of 1589 and I'm getting Azhmet up at EW if it won't get to Epilogue. So y'all comment on it there, once it gets there, kay?

New piece of Rarae

Sam's scene, immediately after Mair's little interlude.

---
The musical parochiality of the smaller Houses and Clans was discouraging, Sam mused to himself as he swung his lute over his back and retreated from another night of playing juvenile fight songs and bawdy choruses. A pity they had to sing along; they had very little sense of pitch, and if they could just listen for awhile, he might play some of the more advanced compositions for which his training had prepared him. And they might even like them. But no, he was just a Journeyer, and they wouldn't take those from him; he was there to be looked at and admired as a sign of their House's prosperity and culture, and then made to play and sing the same ten Servalan folk songs over and over again.
As he left the sunken playing-floor in the middle of the Commons, he reflected on the folly of his eargerness to be out of school and on a Journey. It was a capital honor, but, as he charmingly warded off the advances of an obviously immature queencub and readjusted his decorative tunic, for the most part an extremely irksome honor. Well, that wasn't entirely fair; only the worthless Houses and Clans were terible to play for. Surprisingly, most of the solitary livers were much more culturally literate, and the better tribes had more interesting requests. But those kinds of people were considerate enough to avoid monopolizing what was a rare commodity; by unfortunate practicality, he had to stay the longest for the least interesting audiences.
And how much more unfortunate that his appearance lengthened that stay! To be ginger was a current fashion, and he'd seen more badly rreza-dyed fur on his Journey than anywhere else in his life. He, being the perfect image of the scruffy but well-endowed, roadworn but charismatic minstrel, was particularly assailable for the continutation of that stereotype. To be sure, it was amusing, the number of original ballads about the flaming-haired, golden-throated, night-flying charmer that popped up in villages after he was gone, but his reputation began to precede him, and at some point he was sure the people would start making demands he wasn't willing to meet. He'd be tied down in one venue, and bored to tears with the requests they'd place for "Fighting Morloi" or "Queens' Tails, They Do Tell".
Ah, to be back at a House with a proper bardic studies canton! And he missed the spell of ensemble work. But best not think about that. He'd lose his status and support if he went back.
In the confines of the torch-lit hallway, Sam's tears were invisible. The prowling queens wouldn't follow him to his chamber, and he could drop his propriety and lumber up the stairs on all fours. Once in the sparely apportioned berth, he could let his loneliness loose in a frightening hiss. The smoky tallow candle guttered at his exclamation, and he set his lute on the table with it as it died completely. Only the furtive moonlight through the unbarred window slit saw him as he reached the depths of his nightly spiral of misery, curled miserably around a cushion in the depression that formed his bed.
He really missed Afri.
He'd just have to stand it, though, because the people who insisted on his Journey and who prevented Afri's were nigh on impossible to confound. He was the superior brute force to nearly any rival he could name, but that parasite-eaten toady of the Canton Master held him in a debt he couldn't resolve. He'd been so gravely ill after a scuffle had left him with an infected throat wound, that it was a wonder he hadn't died, let alone lost his voice. It hadn't been affected at all, thanks to the only talent of a coercive Sylvan who'd been required by appearances to attend him (he was, after all, mated to the sibling of this miracle-worker, and she could hardly leave him to die from an injury incurred in protecting their family's honor).
No, his voice was fine, but he might as well be dumb for all the pleasure he got out of performing anymore. It was just a continuation of his current run of misfortune, this separation. Afri's meddling sister really didn't want him around. He doubted she even understood the cause of her own jealousy; she was oblivious enough to think Afri was enamored of his foster sister, but her instincts pointed her to oust Sam, so she had. He'd no doubt Rae's life would be much more miserable now, since Mair could now start in on her without distraction.
If only he could have avoided that stupid conflict, and negated the need for Mair's admittedly superb healing. She'd pulled her strings with the Masters and now he was off on a Journey that should have been concurrent with his playing partner's. It was highly unusual for the Masters to separate such an effective, tight ensemble. The more skill present, the more an audience appreciated it, and the more successful the bards. He and Afri might well be Masters by now, their Journeys long finished, if he hadn't been so quick to take offense at a passing outsider's impugning the Savinnon honor.
Afri had bade him let the stranger alone, but Sam could tell it was the slimy type of personality commonly found among the servants of the Usurper, and, in his opinion, desperately needed the lesson. The slime was not merely figurative. It'd taken Mair nearly a week to restore him to consciousness after that sickening tear through his throat, though that may have been just a vindictive pleasure of hers. Afri was nearly comatose himself from lack of sleep, and, upon Sam's awakening, fell asleep in his arms. Sam squeezed his battered, dusty cushion at the memory. But, week or day, he was obligated to Mair for her services, and she, the nasty tick, had sweetly suggested to the Masters that seeing him healthy was all the payment she required, and a Journey away from familiar people and surroundings might further his recovery. Which left him as forlorn and heartsick as a resilient orange giant of a Sylvan with a sensible outlook and an iron constitution could get. And that was saying something.
Sam composed himself, slipping his breathing into deep, calming patterns, and ruefully acknowledged the futility of trying to path Afri. Neither of them was practiced or innately skilled at long-range communication, and that made his travel even less bearable. Nonetheless, he was healthy, pursuing a career he was passionate about, and the people he cared about were in no grave danger. He gave one last gargantuan sigh and settled for sleep in his small den.