Stretched Thin

"I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread."  ~JRR Tolkien (Bilbo Baggins)
The Fellowship of the Ring

I'm not feeling quite myself lately. I have trouble getting motivated, staying focused, and doing work... but also writing, playing video games -- I haven't touched a Playstation in like two months -- and even reading. (And I've had some really fascinating things to read lately, several of which have been a big help in keeping me cheery.) Dungeons and Dragons remains a high point, whether I'm a player or the Dungeon Master, but while that cheers me up for as much as a day or so, I go back to being sort of blah afterwards. 

Is it because of this thing at work where we're no longer allowed to attend conferences out of state, and have to do battle with a committee to get permission to make an exception? Maybe, partly. I mean, flashbacks to my last job there, and also I'm enrolled for a conference in early April and I still don't know if I'm attending, which is an additional bit of stress on top of the part where attending a conference at all is weirdly stressful for me.

Is it personal/family stuff? Secondborn is going to have to repeat tenth grade next year, but I think at this point we're just kind of relieved to have that sorted out, and she made the selection on where she would attend to do that -- and seems pretty cheery about it. We've the D&D campaign going again for her and her friends, too. Plus, Firstborn is home for Spring Break. So I don't really think it's that.

Is it the unseasonably warm spring and associated allergies? Maybe, partly. I feel like I may have missed my window for a camping trip this spring, just because before long it's going to be too damned hot to go. I can't imagine what it's going to be like by the time May rolls around. 

Or is it watching our federal government -- which my tax dollars help pay for -- being run by the worst people in existence, and making unforced errors with easily predictable consequences that are now impossible to reverse? Because constant exposure to that shit -- and it is constant -- sure as hell isn't helping anyone's mental health. Even trying to be careful about how much news I take in, I find myself overwhelmed. (Not to mention how insulting I find it that this war-that-isn't-a-war is costing us incomprehensible amounts of money each day, after I've spent years listening to politicians try to claim that there isn't enough money to fund the postal system or provide public healthcare or offer public housing or pay our teachers more or-- Y'know, anything that might actually help people.)  And yeah, that's definitely a big part of it too.  

Anyway, if I'm a bit erratic in updating the Blog o' Doom here, that's why. 

Villain: Witch of the Mists

Name: Nadja Jane Whitaker
Alias: Witch of the Mists
Age: 38
Appearance: 6' tall, with medium brown hair and milky skin, blue eyes and a slender, leggy build.
Job: Thief

Nadja Whitaker was set for a life in law enforcement. She had a major in Criminal Justice, a minor in sociology, and a background which included both target shooting and various martial arts. She was on the cusp of getting hired by the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department when her background check dug up an incident involving Anomalous powers -- back in middle school. She found herself rejected from the job, and blackballed from the entire industry. 

Enraged, she turned to crime instead, using her knowledge of the system and her Anomalous powers to pull off robberies, foil police, and make her mark on the world. She takes particular pleasure in bringing down dirty cops -- or at least exposing them -- and has been known to help protesters escape from kettling and other police entrapment. 

Her powers include summoning fogs -- harmless, nauseating, or deadly -- and assuming a mist-form herself, though that means leaving behind clothing and equipment. Outside of her profound dislike of law enforcement, she is generally easy-going, and likes to spend her days exercising and her evening drinking beer and playing pool or card games. She has been working informally with Antaeus and Evil Gecko lately, and Evil Gecko's non-violent ethos has encouraged her to stretch her powers far enough to develop a sleep mist that renders its victims unconscious.  

Valthor: The Ancient Book

"Oh, the last third of the book has spells, and we've been using those to build a lexicon so we can translate the rest of it. It's disturbing stuff: necromancy, and conjuration related to necromancy . What really interests me, though," continued the scholar, "is the first section. The title of it is something like, 'story' with markers for both truth and obscurity, followed by 'ground' or 'world', and then 'primacy'. Taken together, it's something like 'The Secret History of the First World'."

Sy, who wasn't a bad fellow for being a human and a priest of the Harvest Maiden, stiffened. Valthor managed not to glance at him, because he had a pretty good idea of why the cleric looked stung. 

Among the peoples of the daylight world and servants of the gods, it was generally taught that this was first and only world. To claim otherwise was generally considered heresy, though the degree varied somewhat from place to place. And there was a very specific belief, not uncommon in the court where he'd grown up, that the Harvest Maiden herself was the last survivor of the gods of the previous world.

Here, and particularly among the clergy of the Harvest Maiden, such a belief was not just heresy but blasphemy. In the court of his former home, the belief had been something else: it had been taught as a warning. 

No, he was definitely not going to bring that up with Sy. Not unless, for some unimaginable reason, it actually became important to know.

The scholar had finished reassuring the priest that he meant no insult, and that perhaps they should expect that a book of evil magics might also include a heresy or three. Sy had settled back, though he still looked disgruntled. 

Valthor couldn't blame him. Ominous didn't even begin to cover this. 

Valthor: The Truth of the Blade

"Thank you," said Valthor, as Tizrin handed the rapier back to him. "What's the verdict?"

The little rabbit-man artificer looked up at him. "Well," he said in his soft, almost furry voice, "it isn't cursed. It's just... bound to you, somehow. And it's a pretty basic magic weapon, enchanted to make it more likely to hit and to do a bit more damage... except, it has some hidden magics sealed away. Abilities that haven't been activated yet."

"Oh?" asked Valthor. He'd grown up around dark magics and even less savory practices, but he wasn't a spellcaster himself. 

Tizrin nodded. "Oh yes, and what's very weird is that its bond to you is connected to the seal. You'll still need to attune to it, and after that maybe you can figure out how to unlock more of it."

"Thank you," Valthor said again. "I will."

It was later, alone in his room, when Valthor would draw the blade again and study it. It felt good in his hand, light and ready. He made a few passes with it, then sheathed it again. 

Well, she was definitely my sister, then. What were you up to, Mother? He could make no guess on that front; he simply didn't know his mother well enough. She had taught him magical theory, shown him the bladesinging style she used with her sword, asked him questions designed to to make him think about his other siblings: what they wanted, how they went about getting it. She had never never discussed her own feelings about the rest of the court or her interactions with them, though.  

What were you up to? 

PotM: Leandra and Vishan at training

Swords were the weapons of nobility, and to be knighted was to enter the lowest of their ranks. Still, there were other weapons, and Leandra learned them all alongside her fellow students: spears, axes, maces, axes, halberds, bows, crossbows. Some of her cohort had been training since they were very young, and she struggled to catch up to them. 

Horses were another matter. Leandra had been riding for nearly as long as she could walk; she knew the beasts and their moods. Warhorses were larger and fiercer, but she took to them all the same, and when it came to charging with shield and lance she found herself at an advantage. 

That was where she first met Vishan. Proud and self-assured, he had mounted his horse without preamble, and immediately been thrown. She had rushed over to check on him -- dark-haired and grey-eyed and athletic, but clearly no friend to warhorses -- and the first words out of his mouth were, "You didn't see that." Then he'd groaned, inhaled sharply, and tried to push himself back to his feet. 

"Didn't see what?" she'd asked innocently, widening her eyes and smoothing her face to hide the laughter. She held out a hand, he took it and let her help him to his feet. 

They'd been inseparable after that: practicing together, teaching each other, eating together... It wasn't until three months later that Vishan let slip that he was a Prince of the Realm. 

PotM: Leandra at Margull

Before the rise of the Usurper, Margull was where people came to test and train themselves for knighthood: an isolated training post from long ago, now with a city grown up around it. The High Reeve ran the fort and its four fortalices, and served on the Mayor's Council; the Mayor and Council managed the town and its governance. 

Leandra traveled to Margull when she first came of age. The journey was a gift from her parents, celebrating her entry into womanhood with a trip in the family's cart, driven by her father and pulled by one of their two plow-horses. They were greeted at the gates of the training post, and granted permission to enter. A knight in clothing of crimson and gold came and spoke to them, and then took her away for testing. 

When they returned to her father, the knight granted his permission for Leandra to enter the training. He asked her father to return in half a year for her first evaluation, where she would discover whether they thought she had the makings of a knight, or whether they judged that she would do better on her parents' farm. Leandra and her father cried tears of joy and sorrow, and in the morning he departed alone. 

Leandra remained, and began her study of the blade.  

Fighting Monsters

I wish I'd paid more attention to last night's dreams. There was a lot of Being Attacked By Monsters and also Fighting Them Off, and the monsters themselves were varied and bizarre. Admittedly, it's been a long week -- don't ask, or at least don't expect me to answer -- but still, this was the kind of material I could use. And the sense of fighting back effectively was reassuring. 

The setting was... a lot of uncertain ground -- moving from place to place, climbing and descending, but that's about all I recall of it. There were things that seemed like people, and things that were unmistakably monstrous; most were animal, but some were mostly or partly vegetable. 

Gah. I should have taken notes while it was all still fresh in my head.