Afterworld: On The Home Front

"You left us swords, right?" asked my younger child who -- here at the end of everything -- was still struggling with their gender identity. The older boy had apparently never had a doubt, but that's biology for you. 

I nodded. "Swords, knives, and the rifle. I'm hoping not to have to use up any ammo--" which was only slightly less scarce than batteries "--but if you two need to make some noise, you do it -- cautiously."

Mary nodded. "Whatever it takes to stay alive," she told them. "You are my sunshines."

Hunter looked at his informally-adopted brother Cesar, and then his younger sister Sonja, who still let us call her Gavin sometimes. Cesar's sister Belleza -- also informally adopted -- was a year older than Hunter; I'd found her and her brother in Plano, Texas, outside an apartment complex where Cesar had been desperately sick and Belleza out looking for anyone who could help him. They'd fallen in easily, glad -- I think -- to have people who wanted to protect them and didn't want to take advantage of them. None of us knew what had become of their parents. It wasn't entirely beyond the realm of possibility they might find their way here; the kids had left a note in their apartment. She said, "We'll be careful," and Hunter nodded. 

"All right," I said, and went out to join the hunting party.  

  

 

Afterworld: A Band of the Strange

Chad had never intended to become a vampire. After the plagues, he'd discovered that drinking human blood made him stronger and faster, and he'd taken advantage of that to survive. Then he'd discovered that it was also addictive, and he couldn't stop drinking human blood or he'd die. None of us really blamed him; when civilization was first falling apart, we'd all been really desperate. Most of us recognized that any of us could have fallen into that trap. 

Devon, as I said, had been hunted by beasts while camping with his friends, killed one, and taken its skin to wrap around him so that he didn't die of hypothermia. After a couple of hours, he found that having the skin around him caused him to become one of the beasts, which gave him a quicker way back to what remained of civilization. I don't think I can adequately describe the expression of relief on his face when he talks about realizing that he could remove the skin and re-assume human form. 

I'd been struck by a couple of drones from a Night Mother, but managed to stumble out into daylight in time to slow the transformation into one of her children. It had turned my left forearm and calf into black-skinned flesh, harder and stronger than human flesh by far, but only slowly spreading towards my brain and full control of my faculties -- usually when I exerted myself. My right boot was equipped with lifts to help me keep my balance. 

My wife, Mary, had gained her pneuma at a hidden temple east of the Mississippi just after the incident there, after a wandering monk had intervened to help us out. The monks had stabilized my transformation, too, limiting them to my left arm and left leg... which still made me a freak of sorts, but at least I wasn't still turning into something worse. My beautiful wife, with her new gifts, had taken 'cutting words' to a new level: she could breathe out monsters of her own, or use her breath to attack or defend.

Jason was... nobody was quite sure, because nobody else had seen whatever he'd survived, and he wasn't entirely clear on where he'd come from or how he'd gotten here to join up with the rest of us. His body was covered in thorns and spines, which he used as armor, claws, and fangs. He'd married one of the survivors that Devon had brought in, and they seemed happy as a couple.

Ishanna was a hunter, equally comfortable with bows and guns; somewhere she'd picked up the ability to be all but undetectable at night. Like Jason, she had no idea where; it was just something she'd discovered she could do as she made her way through the end of days. 

Jenny had turned into something like a fox-girl, with red-orange fur, excellent senses,  and claws and fangs. She says she started changing as a result of the plagues themselves, and not anything that came after. Unlike Devon, her form was fixed; she looked the way she looked. 

"We're going to head out and see what's out there," I told Ms. Lili, who was... not exactly the mayor, but something very like. "And try to make sure none of it gets all the way here."

Ms. Lili had been a high school teacher in the Before Times, and sometimes that still showed through; the look she gave me was very much what you'd use to convey your approval to a student who was taking his own initiative on a project, and never mind that I was in my late forties and had a high-school-aged kid of my own. "Excellent," she said. "For my part, I'll make sure everybody stays on the campus and ready to shelter in place, and that the emergency squads are ready to go."

Afterworld: Rain of Monsters

The storm is a bad one, spitting out monsters along with wind and rain, lightning and thunder. We don't usually get them like that, up here in the forests of the plateau. The Sacred Trees usually hold them back. They're more common out in the plains, where a bad storm in the right season can wipe out half a city, I'm told. Regardless, we're going to have to organize a troop to go out there and wipe out whatever survived the fall -- which will be the strongest and the worst of them. We'd better be ready.

"How bad?" asks my wife, carefully modulating her voice so as not to do us any damage. 

"Not disastrous, but it'll be trouble." I shrug. "It's more water for the reservoir, but we'll be hunting Things for a couple of weeks after this -- and in the woods, yet."

"They'll be weaker there, at least," she said, and I nodded agreement. 

None of us were entirely sure what the trees on this particular section of the Cumberland Plateau were doing to weaken the apocalyptic intrusions, but it it was impossible to deny that they were doing something. The beasts and stranger things that tried to come up the mountain weakened, sometimes died on their own, and frequently just turned back. It made occupying the former University of the South almost safe, despite concerns about food, fresh water, and our fellow refugees. 

There are cracks in the world now, almost like overlays in some places. Strange things emerge from them, bringing multiple apocalypses all at once. Some of that has settled back, but some of it hasn't. Miami was devoured by a spreading infection so bad that the government nuked it -- back when we had a government, and working nuclear arms. Most of the Everglades are an irradiated wasteland now. The city of New York, I'm told, remains haunted by killer ghosts -- unseen things that walk through walls and kill instantly with a touch. The Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex was taken over completely by the zompires, who have been expanding more slowly ever since -- their need for blood holds them back, now that the surrounding communities have fled or been consumed. Seattle, on the other hand, had banded together to turn back the massive beasts prowling its streets, and was now considered a sanctuary of sorts. I had word of this from one of the skin-changers, Devon, who had skinned one of the beasts all the way down in Arkansas and could now use that skin to assume its likeness. 

Of the ones who'd managed to survive, not all had come through unchanged. The plagues that preceded the intrusions had been bad enough on their own. 

"I'll come with you," my beautiful wife said softly, knowing that I wouldn't stay back when the troop formed. Too many of them would be ordinary, unaltered, still purely human. They would need the support of the Strange, like us: the ones who'd been altered by the end of the world. It would keep their casualties down, and here at the end of all things we desperately needed to keep their casualties down. 

Music: Ain't No Grave Gonna Hold Me Down

R.T. Lackey:

/p>

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-five

Telorn hadn't expected to bring company, but Skyflower was as quick and silent and light as he was. They reached the end of the shaft, paused, and then listened. 

There was movement in the dark, and while either of them could hide very well in the darkness, neither of them could see in it. "Back up," Telorn whispered, gesturing, and Skyflower nodded. 

That was right before something grabbed his foot and slammed him down against the stone floor. Telorn managed to kick loose, and called, "Help!" as he drew his rapier. He could make out vague shapes outside the narrow square of light from the shaft, and settled back, ready to attack or defend. The thing that had grabbed him came forward and he stabbed at it, but it wasn't taking as much damage as it should for where he hit it. 

Skyflower hit the ground beside him, drawing her blade; a moment later four glowing darts angled down and slammed into the darkened thing.  Something struck at her from the darkness, but missed. Telorn put his back to hers, let her measure his movements, and then took half a step forward to give her room to move. 

Then Tybalt arrived, having slid down the ropes. He raised his blade, and holy light spilled forth. Half a dozen creatures -- zombies and skeletons -- collapsed on the spot; others drew back, hesitant. Sun was down, immediately beside Tybalt, and the light from her holy symbol downed the two large dead things. 

"Close," said Tybalt. 

"Thank you," said Telorn. The others were coming down the ropes, but they weren't here yet. If the two clerics hadn't shown up, he might not have survived. 

Sun conjured some floating lights, to make sure the area was clear. It was, and there was a door: they had a way forward. 

VtM: Information, Connection, Planning

Shannon was just as striking as she'd been when he first saw her, standing in the door of the Crux Invertis just after dawn and studying his face. The smile she offered him looked concerned. "You all right?"

He nodded. "I got in, I got out. I need to know things before my... patron finds me again."

Shannon studied him for a moment longer, then said, "Okay. Come inside." She hesitated, then said: "Malachi's still awake."

Edhem hesitated. "Is that usual?"

"No, but... Come inside."

Edhem nodded and stepped through the door. He shouldn't be trusting Shannon as much as he was, but then Malachi and the kids hadn't seemed actively hostile either. At least, not so far...

"Ah," said Malachi. "Edhem Blackburn, the would-be reporter." He smiled. "And sometime hunter."

Edhem glanced at Shannon, then crossed to the table where Malachi sat. "Investigator," he said gently. "Not reporter."

"But privy to ancient powers, Shannon tells me."

Edhem nodded, putting a hand on the book in its pouch at his belt. He hadn't brought in any of the canes; that would have been asking for trouble, and trouble was the last thing he wanted here. "Some," he admitted. "I wasn't lying about looking into the death of the Magical Mister Grey."

"I didn't think you were." Malachi glanced at Shannon, who nodded. 

"I didn't think you were, either."

Edhem hesitated. He didn't want to owe either of them a favor, not with everything else going on, but... "Could we trade knowledge, as I did with Shannon before?"

"Of course," answered Malachi. "You've no idea how much I've missed this. What sort of magus are you? What tradition?"

That was technically two questions, but Edhem recognized a clarification when he heard one. "I'm one of the Scions of the First City," he said quietly. "I create effects by inscribing the first tongue in my own blood." He paused. "What are Toreador and Tremere?"

Malachi answered without hesitation. "They are clans of vampires, the artists and the sorcerers among our number."

"I think you may have answered more than my original question," Edhem observed carefully.

Malachi shrugged. "Consider it a gift. As I said, it's been some time since I could gather information this way. I've missed it. Now then... What can you tell me about the one who set you to this task?"

Edhem considered that, then blew out a breath. "Since it found me in Jack and Valeria's apartment, likely a Tremere. And as Shannon observed, old. There was a sort of otherworldly beauty, but also a... stillness. Like talking to a statue, until it moved and answered. I don't know how much that narrows it down. It said that Jack's death had upset... one of its grandchildren, if I remember correctly. And I should clarify that it didn't set me to investigate the death; I was already doing that on my own. It just pointed me towards you, and Cavalieri, and a few others." He hesitated, then asked: "It said it would 'watch over me' while I did this. How much should I be reassured or worried by that?"

"Very much," said Malachi. "If I said those words, I would be promising my protection--" He gestured around. "--such as it is, but I would also be signaling that I might be interested in bringing you into our world. The older ones in particular... they don't ask permission before doing that. Not usually." He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully, then added: "I am Caitiff, clanless. I would not do such a thing myself; I'm not well-enough established for that. But an older Tremere would offer you more protection, and be better able to bargain with the Prince for permission to turn you."

Edhem felt a little ripple of horror go through him, and tried not to show it. "Your turn," he said quietly.

"Why would one of our elders choose you for this?" asked Malachi.

Edhem sighed. "...Because I arrived on the balcony of Jack and Valeria's most recent apartment in the form of an owl, walked into the darkness without needing much light, and promptly sat down to use my dead master's deck of cards to learn more about what had happened to Jack and Valeria. The elder interrupted the reading to question me, and then tried make me do his will... and failed."

"Yet here you are, doing his will regardless."

Edhem tilted his head. "That wasn't a question, and it wasn't your turn anyway. How much of a problem is it that Valeria was taken away by someone named Grand, who was a Toreador?"

Malachi was still human enough to suck in a breath before answering. "Jack Grey, as you've surmised, was one of the Tremere. Valeria, in addition to being his wife and assistant on stage, was his ghoul -- as Shannon is mine. That means that Jack was giving her some of his blood, to increase her abilities without fully turning her from the light. It made her a powerful protector for him, but more importantly it linked her to the Tremere clan. To have her taken in -- or kidnapped -- by the Toreadors after his death? That's a great insult to the Tremere, almost a challenge. But Grand, like most Toreadors, has always been melodramatic. Rescuing the widow of someone who'd died in her service, or even her presence, would have been nearly irresistible for her. It will be worse if Grand turns Valeria; the Tremere will never forgive that." He yawned. "And now, I have pushed my sleep off as far as I comfortably may. I have no more questions for you, mageling."

Edhem nodded and rose, bowed. "I do have one more for you," he said, "but it's a matter of permission, not information."

"Oh?" asked Malachi. "Pray tell."

"May I date your ghoul?"

Malachi laughed and turned to Shannon. "If Shannon agrees, of course. And with the understanding that if this Tremere elder turns you, you will not attempt to turn her. She would be killed out of hand, even if she survived the process."

That consideration hadn't even occurred to Edhem, but he fixed it firmly in his mind. "M'lady, would you indulge me while we have some daylight yet?"

Shannon glanced at Malachi, who had already vanished, and then looked back at Edhem and grinned. "We're both going to do tests," she said, "and if we're both negative then yes. And I have to warn you, I put out on the second date -- which this would be -- and I expect you to, too." 

VtM: Mansion, Servants, and Dog

It took less than an hour for Edhem to realize that he could have come in human form. This wasn't a well-run household; this was a theater troupe, re-employed to keep them solvent during the lockdown. That Bianca Cavalieri was also a performer didn't stop her from paying them -- indeed, the woman seemed thrilled to have other performers at her beck and call. 

She and Lucien slept through the day and awoke at night, of course. Indulgence of the rich, perhaps, but almost certainly something more. And despite Lucien's strenuous objections, Bianca did have a soft spot for dogs. Showing up just after dark not only got him inside, it got him a warm blanket, a cushion, and in surprisingly short order an assortment of treats. Bianca -- and consequently her staff -- had no qualms about feeding him bits of chicken and ham and other scraps. 

And Bianca, diva that she was, had no discretion whatsoever. It was Lucien who chased the servants away, Lucien who tried to speak to her about the displeasure of the Tremere elders -- whoever they were -- and Lucien whose words confirmed that Jack Grey died here, and his wife Valeria was taken away from here by someone named Grand, who apparently was unacceptable because she's a Toreador -- whatever that was. 

By the time dawn came around, Edhem was happy to escape.  

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-four

Telorn was ready to go in a heartbeat, and he evidently knew what he was doing. Graznir Toothtaker touched a particular carving on the back of the altar, and a section of the floor parted and swung down, revealing a vertical shaft through the bedrock. Telorn was already looping a section of rope around the altar and tying it off when Skyflower touched his shoulder and said, "A moment, Cousin."

"Yes?" he turned to her. 

"This is a scouting run, I trust: go down, make sure it's safe, then let the others know."

Telorn nodded. "That's the plan. I'm taking the lead because your siblings are... nowhere near so quiet as they believe."

She grinned. "Then let me come with you. If anything is down there, it's better to have two of us to deal with it, and if something else goes wrong, well, one of us can go for help." 

"You think there are still things down there, after all these centuries?" Telorn didn't sound doubtful; he sounded like he was considering possibilities. Skyflower appreciated that.

"There might be," said Graznir Toothtaker. "If nothing moves in the darkness, then this trip will have been a great waste." He paused. "Well, perhaps not a waste, but a disappointment."

Telorn turned to face him. "You believe there might actually be remnants of your empire down there? Survivors?"

Graznir nodded. "That is our hope, that not all of our people -- and their knowledge and scholarship -- was lost. That some remnant might have escaped and hidden themselves away here."

Telorn turned back to Skyflower and grinned. "I'd be glad of the company," he said easily. 

She grinned back, then turned to her kin. "If you hear the sounds of fighting, come get us." 

Too close to the end of the year

We've got a bunch of stuff coming up and once again it's all going to happen right at the end of the year -- basically all because one particular project (not one of mine) still isn't complete. Which is going to create a bunch of extra work, because without that project in place we're going to have to do any upgrade that will force us to re-create a whole bunch of approval workflows in a new environment. And that will have to be done before the end of the year, because it's the only way to keep this system compatible with another system, which absolutely has to be upgraded before the end of the year. 

Otherwise we can't pay our employees. 

I'm trying to retain a positive attitude about this, but with everything that's going on over the last couple of months I'm just... man, I am not feeling it. 

That said, I am feeling a bit better after finally getting to run a D&D game last night. 

The Burden of Schoolwork...

Spent a big chunk of Saturday night getting Secondborn through an overdue assignment. 

It was a rebuttal paragraph for an essay, with a quote from the text. Maybe five sentences in all. 

This, somehow, took us hours. Like, I could have re-read the whole damned book in that amount of time. I don't know if she was just procrastinating, or didn't know where to find the source text -- she says she was trying to find a usable quote online, but I found one in about twenty minutes and we built a paragraph around that and got it turned in with maybe two minutes to spare before the deadline. 

I'd hoped we were making some progress, but apparently we're not. Which is depressing as fuck-all, because I can't have her struggling through this school year the way she was struggling through last school year. And I mean that in a strictly logistical fashion: I don't have the spoons to do my job, help keep the house running, and drag Secondborn through her schoolwork. 

The school is trying very hard to work with us, but it feel like trying to run cross-country on a treadmill: all effort and no progress. 

I'm so tired. 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-three

"This is... quite the reunion," Jacques said slowly, as Telom looked around at the others. "The idea that you have come here coincidentally strikes me as ridiculously unlikely. Would you offer us the courtesy of an explanation?"

Telorn bowed. "As you wish, Baronet." He surveyed the room for a moment, then focused on Graznir Toothtaker. "The children of Ruin and King Tavros Fontaine were not the only one to take note of your activities." He turned his attention back to Jacques. "How much do you know of the Silver Fox?"

Tybalt stepped forward. "If you are truly his son, then your half-brother was one of our siblings."

Yvette nodded. "The Silver Fox was a legend," she said. "He was one of the heroes of Fort Dido, and when the second Elfsbane took the throne he confounded the Archons and took elves and half-elves out of their reach. When the Solari-killers and the dark army took the capital, he stayed to help people escape."

Telorn nodded. "My mother was Amra Bissent, one of the palace guard and one of the few who escaped when the city fell. My father never knew I was his child; he was gone to his other work well before she realized he had quickened her with me. Remembering what he had told her, my mother fled to his clan -- elvish nomads loyal to the crown, living strategically along the edges of the Forgotten Desert." He looked back to Graznir. "We know of your ruins, and we keep track of who explores them. My elders consider the pillaging done by the dark army to be a great failure on their part."

"Ah," said Graznir. "And our pillaging?"

Telorn shrugged. "Tolerable," he said. "My clan knows your heritage. For the most part, your activities here are too far away to threaten the clan... but not quite far enough for us to ignore it, either. So, they sent scouts -- myself among them." He looked back to Jacques. "Then, when I realized our shared history, I couldn't resist making contact."

He could see Jacques considering that. After a moment, the Baronet said, "You're a third perspective, then. Do you think we should help the gnolls open the way to their vault?"

Telorn grinned. "Only if you let me help you." 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-two

The temple was little more than a carefully-arranged pile of massive, irregular, un-mortared stones. The entrance had evidently been closed off with a massive stone block, now dragged out and set to one side. 

"That must have taken some work," the half-dragon observed quietly. 

Beside her, Yvette Fontaine nodded. Sun had never considered that a half-dragon married to a human would have quarter-dragon children, but here they were: Julien, who seemed to have bred true to his father, Yvette, with silver scales where an ordinary human would have hair, and Jacques, whose scales were hidden away. Did they have breath weapons, as she and her siblings did? Were they strong and resistant to damage? Julien certainly looked it, but Sun was less sure of the other two.

 "Oh, look at that," said Yvette, nudging her shoulder. There were reliefs on the walls, scraps of paint still clinging to them: gnolls building cities, gnolls harvesting grains, something that might have been a wedding or the signing of a treaty, gnolls marching to war. Formorians, Sun reminded herself. 

"The temple itself is small," Graznir Toothtaker was saying, "consisting mostly of the entryway, a small chapel, a room that was probably used for storage or temporary quarters... and the stairs that lead down to the complex beneath. Likely at one point there were other, less durable structures here on the surface, but if so they have been lost to time."

"Have you made a study of the carvings?" asked Jacques. 

"Only in passing," answered Graznir. "Our focus has been on finding our way down. The passage at the bottom of the stairs is blocked by a series of  heavy stones that were lowered from the ceiling to seal it off. That matches with out stories of the Sealed Vault, but lifting and bracing them has proven time-consuming."

"How far have you gotten?" asked Jacques. 

"Two stones barriers raised, and we're at work on another. It might be possible to raise them all from the other side, without the need for levering and bracing, but none of my people will go down there and we would not ask that of the farmers who labor for us." Graznir hesitated. "Would I be a fool to trust you?"

Jacques frowned and glanced back at the others. "Of course I'd say no, regardless of whether it was true or not. Would I be a fool to trust you?"

"I, too, would say of course not," Graznir admitted. "So... we either choose trust, or we choose betrayal. Would you swear to me, child of Tavros Fontaine, that you would work to get your father to grant us a barony, if not an independent kingdom, in what you call the Forgotten Desert?"

Jacques glanced back at Julien, who shrugged; then he locked eyes with Yvette, who nodded. He hesitated, then looked to Sun. "What about the rest of you? Thoughts?"

"The ruins in the desert are Formorian," Sun said firmly. "Stripped and looted by the Dark Army, but they may still retain some secrets. If they do, the gnolls are clearly heirs to those places, I would join you in petitioning for this, especially since a revived -- and friendly -- nation of gnolls would make use of an area that most avoid, and potentially provide a bulwark against another invasion from the east."

Jacques surveyed the rest of the group, and the True Elf paladin Ash said, "I'm in."

Sun didn't even have to glance at her brother Risk to hear the smile in his voice. "Sounds like fun."

"Then come around behind the altar with me," said Graznir, "and I'll show you the other way down that we discovered. If you can raise the stone barriers and open the way, you'll save us considerable work... and possibly keep our workers safe. That's if  you're willing."

"Wait," said a new voice, and a half-elf strolled into the room, dressed in a mixture of grays. 

"Who is this?" asked Graznir, looking betrayed. 

Sun looked blank; so did Jacques, and Yvette, and all the others. 

"I'm not really with them," the newcomer said, "but I know who they are -- and after several days of lurking in your camp, I know who you are too, Graznir Toothtaker."

"Okay," said Scar, golden-scaled and impatient. "So who the fuck are you?"

"Telorn Bissent," the half-elf said. "Firstborn child of the Silver Fox, Vendril, and the guardswoman Amra."  

StV: Recriminations

"You told the fucking vampire about me." Shastia Middleston was dark-skinned, black-haired, and quietly, unmistakably furious. 

Timothy Davis shook his head and held up both his hands, palms forward. He was dark skinned and pale-eyed and bald, and his expression was simultaneously surprised and scared. "I only told him that he might want to talk to you, and that you weren't about to volunteer for one of the teams."

"That's still--" Shastia hesitated. "Okay, maybe that's not so bad." She sighed. "Fine, I won't kill you now."

"Well in that case, I won't take control of your mind."

She punched him in the shoulder. "I take it you didn't make the team?"

Tim shook his head in confirmation. "Well... not yet. Telepathy doesn't work on him, and without it I can't really fight -- but he did say that if I could get somebody to agree to help me show what I can do with telepathy, we could have another tryout."

Shastia tilted her head. "I'm not helping you with that."

"He said it would be better if it was someone on the teams, so I'm not even asking."

"Good."

"All right, so Laura's in. Abby evidently likes him, and he's willing to give you a second chance." She shook her head. "He didn't hesitate when I gave him my demands, either."

"Your demands?" asked Tim. 

Shastia nodded. "No recordings, and he doesn't say anything to anybody about what I a-- what I can do."

Tim nodded. "I'm not surprised he agreed to that."

"Why not?" asked Shastia, but she sounded curious rather than suspicious.

"He was keeping secrets, too. From the rest of us, from the faculty... right up until that whole thing with the Hounds, when everything blew up. I'd guess he knows what it's like." 

"Huh," she said, and then fell silent for a long while. 

Nope, still recovering...

 Losing Sleep, by Charlotte Sometimes:

Okay, fuck it

If this were a normal Friday, I'd be thinking about things to post for the coming week. It... isn't. So, for Monday, you get this: 

Some final thoughts...

Grief is weird. It catches you at odd moments, creates weird responses, and never entirely goes away. I'm a big fan of the Ball In A Box analogy, which I think does more to explain the experience than just about anything else I've found. But one of the weirdest elements, for me, is that life doesn't just stop the way you think it should. Stubbornly, aggravatingly, it goes on. So you grieve, but also you go to work. You grieve, and you cook dinner (or order pizza). You grieve, and you go buy groceries.

Grief is also exhausting. Spending the weekend in the hospital watching my father pass away left me utterly drained. Writing the first draft of his obituary did it again. Writing my remarks for the memorial service left me wanting to crawl inside a pillow fort and sleep for a week. Just getting through the day leaves me tired -- and though this, too, shall pass, I just haven't quite gotten there yet. 

Grief is a part of life. It's price we pay for being able to love. 

But that doesn't mean it doesn't suck. 

More About My Dad

My father was very proud of his health, albeit in a way that was, well, maybe a bit eugenicist. He stayed active throughout most of his life (and even later, when his wife forced him into exercise classes), and he could recover from things that should have been crippling. Or simply... shrug off damage that should potentially have been lethal. That stayed with him right to the end; the simple fact that he was still breathing and had a heartbeat when his blood pressure had fallen to 12/12 was so absolutely in character that we weren't even surprised. 

I once watched the man slide down a fify-foot-high granite cliff -- not vertical, but probably about a seventy-five degree angle -- crash into the underbrush, and then stand up and start looking around for his wallet. The back pockets of his jeans had been abraded away. The rawhide jacket he was wearing appeared untouched. 

In his youth, he was out on the mountainside and in a moment of inattention shot himself in the thigh; with no particular way to seek help -- this was long before cellphones existed -- he hiked back up the mountainside to the only local hospital and checked himself in. They looked him over, told him that the bullet had passed through cleanly and not hit anything important, and that the wound had basically closed itself up already, so there really wasn't much to do. He then walked back home. 

When I was young -- maybe seven or eight? -- he slipped while trying to help a sailboat dock, and the prow of the boat bent his right knee sideways. It wasn't quite to ninety degrees, but it was pretty horrible to watch and in retrospect I'm a little surprised I didn't have nightmares about it. Except Dad, true to form, spent the next few years walking with a cane until his knee apparently fucking recovered completely and after that it was all back to normal. That was well before the cliff incident, I should add. 

In his... Fifties? Sixties? ...he discovered that he had some blockages in his heart and got a bypass. Life expectancy after that was, we were told, maybe twenty to twenty-five years. He lived to be eighty-nine, and really only succumbed to COVID. The man had the constitution of a musk ox. 

One memory that I've recently found myself circling back to is spelunking with him and some others in my youth -- I'd guess I was about ten years old, which would put my younger brother at around seven; but we might have been a few years older than that. We were down in one of the limestone caves along the edge of the Cumberland Plateau, and we saw an opening that looked like it led to a larger room. Now, this opening was wide enough that it didn't feel claustrophobic for us, even though it had a very low ceiling -- maybe a foot high near the center. So my brother and I scooted through it, and sure enough it opened into a larger chamber with some pretty neat formations -- flowstone and soda straws, as I recall. 

So Dad... followed us in. He scooted along on his belly, while we called encouragement for him to hurry up until he finally called back that he was moving as fast as he could. Which seemed puzzling until we realized.... Remember what I said about the height of that passage? For the two of us, as children, it was "don't bump your head" territory. It was a lot tighter for my Dad. When he inhaled, he pressed against the floor and ceiling and there was no moving forward. So for him it was "inhale, exhale, and then scoot forward before you breathe in again" territory. 

He did it anyway, and we all agreed that it was a pretty cool cavern, and then he sent us back ahead of him and made his laborious way out. 

Dad's primary musical interests were folk and classical, but when I hit my teenage Serious Heavy Metal phase his only comment was to ask me to please, please turn down the volume on the radio before I turned off the car. Apparently he'd gotten in to go get groceries, and nearly been blown back out the car door by the volume of the music. When my brother developed an interest in drums, well, the house developed a second-hand drum kit in the Activity Room -- which was what we called his workshop. 

Kids need some room in order to grow up, and Dad was always willing to give that to us. We were allowed to make mistakes, to be wrong, to screw up. He taught kindness and patience by example. And he loved learning new things. Right up into his final years, we would call each other up to look up interesting bits of etymology -- did you know that fraught is basically the past tense of freight? It literally means that whatever you're describing has baggage attached. 

Music: Since The Last Time

 Lyle Lovett: 

A Life Lived Well

I'm not real big on the idea that you're only supposed to speak well of the recently-deceased. Fortunately, in my father's case, there's really not much in the way of ill to speak of him. 

My father was an amazing man. He was part of the team at Texas Instruments who developed the world's first hand-held calculator, he could play almost any musical instrument with strings ("except the violin" he would claim, but he played the violin just fine too -- it was just that his father was a virtuoso in a way that's a bit hard to compare oneself to), he was both a teacher and a perpetual researcher, and he was a warm, loving support to everyone around him. 

Shortly after I went away to college (an experience that, in hindsight, was traumatic for all of us in different ways -- but that's a story for another time) one of my closest high school friends had a falling-out with his mother. The issue, at least as I understand it, was that he had graduated high school and wanted to move out and pursue a career in art -- while she wanted him to remain at home. He moved in with my parents while he attended the Art Institute, which is why he's our third brother instead of a very close family friend -- kin instead of kith. 

Dad was a lifelong fan of music and musical instruments -- listening to music, playing music, repairing instruments, and sometimes building them from the ground up. He learned by ear, and essentially didn't read music; music was all in the sounds, for him. His particular quirk was the hammered dulcimer, which he played right up until his eyesight got bad enough that he couldn't make out the strings anymore. Guitar, zither, mandolin, cittern... even piano. He sang, too, as anyone would know after even a brief acquaintance with him. I distinctly recall my mother warning him that if he brought one more musical instrument home he would have to buy them a new house to make room for it.

If I had to try to sum him up -- an impossible task, but what else is an obituary? -- I would say that the three great through-lines of his life were his love of music, his love of discovery and invention, and his fundamental kindness and charity. He taught computer science when I was in high school, and various other sciences at various other schools afterward. Possibly his greatest joy in that was when he could get a student newly interested in some particular study, or problem to solve, or project to undertake. When he could get someone hooked on exploring new ideas or new knowledge. Nor did it have to be academic knowledge; he was a Scoutmaster for several Boy Scout troops, and took just as much pleasure in helping someone learn how to set up a tent or cook food over a campfire or tie a new sort of knot. Have you found a weird bug? Great! How do we figure out what it is?

His funky little research projects always kept him fascinated -- could he reproduce Space Invaders on a Timex Sinclair computer kit? (This was, I don't know, 1982 or so?) (We saved the program to a tape cassette.) (Yes, I too am very old.) Could he write a program that would generate a randomized maze and then -- and this was the tricky part -- have a simulated mouse that could find its way to the center of the maze? 

He also liked to build things -- often in a similarly experimental fashion. Back in the 80s, McDonalds had themed happy meals that included the Space Raiders and Monster-nauts -- rubber figures of aliens, spaceships, and monsters. All of them, my father noted, were cast from two-piece molds. So we took some Plaster of Paris, made molds from the figurines, and recast them in lead from old tire-weights. I don't have any pictures handy, but I still have several of those figures. He also did larger projects: for a while we had a zip line from the tree in the front yard. (That one... did not end so well.) We grew up with a hand-made fort in the side yard. His workroom was usually full of half-completed projects. 

My mother, as I've noted previously, had paralysis as a result of childhood polio. Dad crafted a leather purse that was directly incorporated into one of her crutches; he also designed, built, and installed a hand control so she could drive. (The hand control worked the pedals for her -- squeeze to accelerate, push forward to brake.) He re-married a few years after my mom died, which was deeply weird for me -- but, as I said at the time, that wasn't a complaint against his new wife; it was distinctly a Me Problem. Dad's Wife pulled him back into having a social life, doing music again, attending church -- though after a bit they gave up on the Episcopal church of my childhood and moved to attending her Unitarian Universalist church entirely -- and probably extended his lifespan by nearly a decade. 

 I feel like I'm kind of rambling at this point, so I'm going to leave off here... but I'll likely come back to this at some point, only with a bit of alcohol to grease the gears. And at some point soon I'll have to pull this together into remarks for the service.

And now he's gone

My father has died. It was, as these things go, relatively quick and gentle; he went into a hospital on a Wednesday to seek treatment for COVID-related difficulty with eating/keeping food down, developed trouble breathing while he was in the emergency room, and coded out while they were trying to intubate him. They got his heart started again, and put him on some meds to keep him unconscious (critical when you have a tube down you throat and a respirator forcing your lungs to work) and try to dissolve the blood clot (COVID, again) that were causing the issues with his breathing. My brother and I waited up until he was placed in a room in the Intensive Care Unit, while my brother's wife drove Dad's wife back to their house. 

I pause here to observe that Dad was, technically, a DNR. He'd said for years that he didn't want to end up on a feeding tube, and he didn't want people working to try to keep him alive if there wasn't a reasonable chance that he'd wake back up with his faculties intact. However, at this point it looked like we had a pretty good shot at that kind of outcome. 

By Thursday, that was looking a lot less certain. Despite some truly excellent medical professionals, the drugs were damaging his veins and doing horrible things to his liver, and dehydration was damaging his kidneys. 

I took off early from work and went down to help Dad's Wife look over some medical paperwork that they wanted her to sign. This was when we found that the nutritionist wanted to start putting food in through the feeding tube; it was also when we got a better impression of the way his health was teetering. The doctors were patching holes as quickly as they could, but sooner or later the dam was going to give way. 

So we called it. My brother and his wife came down to join us. My wife had just flown back in from a family event (her sister's retirement) and the first she heard of all this was when I called her on her way back from the airport and asked her to detour to the hospital instead. 

The five of us talked it through, and concluded -- pretty much unanimously -- that the best thing to do was to keep him off the feeding tube, get Third Brother up to visit from Austin first thing in the morning (he didn't feel that he could safely drive up, having heard the news, and if his wife was going to drive then they needed to prepare their girls for the trip), and notify everybody that this was happening.

We also figured out how to adjust the music, so we could turn off the pop that was playing. My dad was not a horrible music snob, but I really didn't think he'd want to leave this world to the tunes of Katy Perry. Instead, Beautiful Wife brought in a bluetooth speaker and used her phone to play hammered dulcimer music for him on Saturday. Third Brother and his family came up -- we really need to find happier reasons to see them -- which was, I believe, critically important for his mental health. Other folks were farther afield, including some who were actually out of the country, but we gave anybody who wanted it a chance to say goodby via Facetime -- with the understanding that Dad wouldn't really be able to react them, of course.

About one o'clock on Saturday afternoon, after talking with the ICU doctor about likely outcomes and what Dad would have wanted, we told them to cease care. They turned off the respirator, extubated him, and switched from the cocktail of medications to a gradually-increasing dosage of morphine, to keep him unconscious and pain-free. 

I don't remember when we left on Saturday. 

We came back on Sunday, and this time we played folk music. We could track how his vitals were slowing down, but the man had constitution of a musk ox and it wasn't until 10:45 p.m. that he finally drifted off. Like, I watched his blood pressure get down to 14/14 and he was still going -- but we all knew at that point it wouldn't be long. His wife curled up beside him on the bed, until his breathing finally jerked and stopped, and the nurse came in and called it. 

So that was how my dad died. Next time, I'll tell you how he lived. 

StV: Another Attempt

Sophia Antonius stepped out onto the sidewalk, holding her bag and glancing back to make sure her boyfriend...

...was missing. Cedric was missing. She reached out for magic, found it, called it into herself. Then she extended her senses, reaching out... 

Cedric was just behind her, unconscious and invisible on the floor just inside the doorway. Two men she couldn't see were moving towards her, one coming out the door while another approached from the street. 

Her brother would have just murdered them, but Sophia was trying for a less lethal outcome. That didn't rule out making it painful, though.

"Cedric?" she called out, doing her best to sound confused about where her boyfriend might have gone. Under her breath, she was muttering rapid phrases and shaping energies... 

You'd better not have hurt him, she thought, as she wrapped them both in what would normally be shields and began to squeeze.  

Both men had apparently just come to a halt in the street, and were having difficulty breathing. Sophia held her grip where it was, waiting, and after a moment they were both visible to regular sight. So was Cedric, collapsed across the doorway... bleeding. 

Sophia clamped down with her shields, and heard the wet-wood snap of breaking bones. She hurried over to Cedric, and activated the general-healing spell that she'd stored in her necklace. Healing spells weren't her most-practiced area, but keeping one prepared in advance gave her time to think through the movements, phrases, and techniques she'd need... and kept her calm enough to use them.  

I may have overdone it

Looked at my To Do list on Monday and pushed through a whole bunch of it, and between that and everything else I am exhausted. And every time I think I'm starting to pull back out, it turns out that no, no I have not. 

 In the last six-or-so weeks: 

•  Secondborn started school and promptly got sick. 
• We got Firstborn into his dorm room, met his new roommate, and made it back home. This part, I'll note, while hectic, actually went pretty well. 
• I spent the next day working from home (as expected) and then was sick as a dog for the next week and a half (not as expected, and probably with whatever Secondborn had picked up at school).
• Just as I was starting to recover from that, I went into the kitchen and realized that the light fixture above the kitchen sink was dripping. This is not the sort of behavior I like to see from an electrical appliance.  
• The roofing guy came out and looked at it, and sealed some likely entry points on the roof. 
• Four days later a 2' x 2' square of the ceiling above the sink filled with water and collapsed, scattering insulation everywhere.
• My dad went into the hospital on a Wednesday for an inability to eat, developed an inability to breathe, and passed away that Sunday.
• After a certain amount of back-and-forth with the insurance company, we got the roof replaced. I do not, in all honesty, remember when exactly this happened; this particular bullet point may not be chronological.
• Beautiful Wife started a new job, at a good company with a good team and an absolutely batshit CEO. 
• The cat escaped on the following Friday night. We found him in the yard late Saturday night, but he escaped again. On Sunday, I put out the medium live-animal trap with some cat food and tuna. We captured a possum, and while we were trying to figure out what to do with that the cat meowed from just outside the fence. We managed to recapture the cat and release the bonus possum -- do not get those two reversed -- and then went the hell to bed.

It's just one damned thing after another, I swear.  

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-one

It was a trio of gnolls that came towards the break. Two of them stopped thirty strides out; the the third, armed and armored, continued forward. 

When Jacques stepped out of the trees, it stopped, grunted, whined... and then dropped back, motioning the robed gnoll forward. 

Jacques continued forward, putting himself will within bowshot -- and both of the apparent guards were armed with crossbows -- and stopping just two strides back of the robed gnoll. "You're the leader, here?" he asked. 

The gnoll ducked its jackal-shaped head. "I am," it growled, then raised its head to study him. "I am Graznir Toothtaker, researcher and scholar and accidental wizard."

Jacques grinned, but kept his teeth covered. "Jacques Fontaine, firstborn son of the King, and Baronet of Caristhium. I won't say it's a pleasure, since we came here following reports that you were raiding the local households, but I'm given to understand that while your recruiting is... unconventional... most of the captured locals will consider themselves satisfied if you pay whatever you've promised."

Graznir regarded him. "Are you a scholar, Jacques Fontaine?"

"A dabbler," Jacques demurred. "I was trained for the Court -- a bit of this, a bit of that. I have been reminded that the gnolls are descendants of the Formorians, who once controlled a puissant magical empire in what is now the desert not far from here."

"Just so," said Graznir. "Legend -- our legend -- has it that there was a vault, sealed away, that contained the core of our magical knowledge after our empire turned on itself. I have spent my life tracking down clues and references, and I believe that it is here."

"This temple?" asked Jacques. "Or beneath it?"

"Beneath it," the gnoll said, his voice soft with reverence. "If it proves true, we could reclaim the desert, reclaim our ancient cities, and perhaps restore the entire area to the life it once contained."

Jacques considered that. "That land technically belongs to Sol Povos, and thus to my father. Would you be willing to negotiate with him? A gnoll -- or Formorian -- barony within Sol Povos is not out of the question, but given the current state of the kingdom I wouldn't like to see it mistaken for some sort of rebellion. We have other, more meaningful, fights to undertake."

 "The elves have their own kingdom, in alliance with Sol Povos. Would your father consider something similar for a small kingdom of Formorians?"

Jacques chuckled. "Knowing my father, he would definitely consider it. Whether he could make it stick with the other nobles... I don't know. But if you keep a low profile and don't let on that there's anything here worth finding, I suspect he could play it off as a concession to someone who would keep order."

The gnoll's face twisted in a way that Jacques thought reflected a frown. "You are the Baronet of Caristhium? You are far from your home."

"Father's orders," Jacques said, and offered a small shrug. "And my friends came to deal with the raids... but if you aren't truly raiders, then another approach seems called for. So... do right by the ones you have working for you, let us help you, and let's see what we can manage together." 

"I think we have little choice," Graznir replied after a moment. "I had hoped to manage this without being noticed, but since you have come... Yes. Very well. Bring your people, and I will show you what we do here."