can't sleep.

[taennyn]

Someone request babble on someone/thing. or a snippet.


[ETA] there is no time limit on this. You are free to request more than one babble and/or snippet.


[ETA2] Snips and babble so far:
Thaddeus, babble and snip (ignore the perverts down the thread, they're bad!werewolves), snip
Phoebe and Aifiric's wedding day
Isael (and Loki-horse), babble and snip, snip
The Morrigan (goddess and person), babble and snip
pre-teen Aodh, snip
baby!Dante, snip
Ian, first worldwalk (Celeloriel is trying to break my BRAIN)
Life in general with the family De'Ath babble

Comments

[youraugustine.livejournal.com]

Thaddeus. :)

[taennyn]

Closet hedonist. Massive texture fixation--especially natural textures, like linen weaves or the outer edges of primary feathers. As such, tends to Avoid textures that make him go *!!!* because it's distracting.
Grew up--until Gabriel got custody--a little touch starved. Is gradually getting used to casual touching--he used to jump when Gabriel did the hand-on-a-shoulder-to-encourage-movement thing.
Is, very gradually, getting attached to the idea of Gabriel-as-father-figure. You would never, ever get him to admit this; Gabriel is addressed as 'cousin' or 'Gabriel', not 'father', but it's getting to the point where the tone is saying more than the word used.

--

There are two sorts of silence in his life, now. Empty silence, the sort that made some people put music on and try to drive away the creeping feeling of loneliness like mist around ankles.
And companiable silence, when he wakes up and just knows that Gabriel has been sitting up all night watching the sky again, sipping black coffee that fades from nearly scalding to nearly freezing before he rises to refill the cup. Silence that gives the impression of rainy afternoons spent baking the house into warmth, of beloved music played just below the level ears can hear it, without either scent or sound.

[youraugustine.livejournal.com]

I probably should not have let the twins read that first bit over my shoulder.

I like him.

[celeloriel.livejournal.com]

Phoebe and Aifiric's wedding day.

[taennyn]

. . oh, dear.


Textures, first--the coils of her hair twisted so the curl nearly disappears, his cut short and trying to curl but not quite managing it, the red-gold embroidery on the hems of her skirts and the cuffs of his shirt, both of them in layers and textures of white. Pure smooth silk, beneath, layered over with shantung and linen in progressively shorter layers so the embroidery creates patterns within and over patterns, in colour and shape both. The crown he rarely wears a plain gold circlet flashing in the light of stained glass as he bends to place her crown on her head, and a rumble of approval that builds to a roar as they turn to face the court instead of one another.

His face, hope warring with laughter warring with exultation at the attention, the approval, her face beginning to crack beneath a calm mask to show the real woman beneath, the mage who looks at the crowd and sees the patterns they unconsciously create in accordance to her husband's unconscious will, the reinforcement of power and what she can make of this.

His children, the son who looks like the father of the king that she wishes she could have held on to, his sandy-red hair fallen into his eyes above his smile, the daughter and the son who create a pattern of their own, armoured knights without a scrap of armour on them, just his sword and her rifle, weapons they are by right entitled to carry and that have become as much a part of them as their hands. The son blows a kiss to her as he sees her watching, and the daughter's mouth quirks, laughter beneath a calm mask to balance the lost look in the eyes of the king's younger brother, who stands at the foot of the dais of the throne.

Ian's family, cloaked in light and power.

And only she to see it, for Ian is gone.

She'll honour her promises, to the man beside her, and to the man she lost without ever truly having.

But oh, this is a bittersweet victory.

[celeloriel.livejournal.com]

oof.

I have a lot of respect for her.

[billradish.livejournal.com]

Isael. Babble, or snippet with Loki and Conall.

[klgaffney.livejournal.com]

hey, no fair--she stole what i wanted. *pout!* isael with loki-horse.

[taennyn]

. . . . .

Loki likes to run--no. Loki likes to work, to be useful, but he demands that his rider prove their ability, always. He is a Forest horse--he's not afraid of wolf smell, so Conall can walk past without Loki rearing or even twitching particularly--which is nice, when Conall wants to tag along on a long ride. Long, leggy black wolf running alongside a red horse, a pack made more peculiar by the ease it shifts and changes when they smell manticore.

There's an odd peace in being able to give over to the instincts that speak in the back of his mind, whispering of angles and shudders of foliage, that pulls a bow from a saddlebag and an arrow from the quiver beside it before the conscious mind even registers that the horse has been turned to a walk and the wolf is safely out of the zone of fire, a black shadow crouched in the trees opposite the flickers of scaly movement.

The horse snorts as a knee presses to his side, the reins dropped to the horn and looped once, and the arrow nocked and pulled, waiting for a perfect shot.

Given as the manticore scents horse and human and prowls out, head high to sniff at the breeze.

The harpy-fletched arrow takes it in the eye, sinking halfway up the length into the skull, and the animal drops, the beginnings of a hunting roar dying in its throat.

The wolf grins, a display of teeth and tongue in his periphrel vision that attracts his attention and makes him smile back as he replaces the bow.

[taennyn]

His character arc is going to be nearly as DIFFICULTinteresting as Aodh's--perhaps more so because so little truly changes when viewed from outside. Details, and their meaning, shift, but there's a need for attention paid to the smallest of details to see it from outside. There's a sweetness, and a sadness, and survivor's guilt like you wouldn't believe. The child who came in, untrained, at the end, and who will, in time perhaps become a true hand of the Crown. Not the king--not the person really wearing the crown--but the Crown. Serves because it is necessary, not because he is needed.
He would not have existed, if the potential passed to him from his father had ever truly surfaced in his father. he is, very much, his father's son, much as he might like to deny or reject it.


--

" . . you do realise that horse is named Loki for more than his colouring, right?"

Without looking up from the saddle, "Oh, yes. He tried to bite me, earlier--hah." Isael pulled the cinch a little tighter, smiling. "Gotcha."

Loki snorted discontentedly.

"Yes, I know, you were hoping to blow enough that I'd fall as soon as I got on you. Nice try," Isael said, in a tone Conall was startled to realise was affectionate.

Some time later, after a minor incident while coming out of the stable involving horse teeth and fast human reflexes, Conall was staring fascinatedly as his cousin put Loki through paces the werewolf could have sworn the horse hadn't been trained in (the horse being a indefatigueable hunting and herding horse meant very little in the face of his talent for tricking riders into complacency. He'd nearly been named 'Pooka' until someone had figured out why there was always a fight around him at the feeding troughs: he bit the horse beyond the horse next to him, starting a fight that distracted the others into leaving him alone with the food.). He would never have guessed that one, Isael knew enough about horses to ride, and two, Isael could lead with one knee to the point that Loki was walking sideways.

" . . He's yours, if you want him," said a voice, startling all three. Conall looked up to spot his father watching from the entrance to the stables, then back in time to watch Isael snag the reins again and circle Loki into a standing position facing Hernén.

"Ah, so?" Isael tilted his head, a quizzical, curious look in his eyes.

Hernén grinned, "I've yet to see anyone handle that horse the way you do, me included. A gift, boy."

A blink, then a nod and a reluctant smile. "Thank you, sir."

[klgaffney.livejournal.com]

aha. so that's how he came about him, then.

*gleeful* ahem.

*does not pat loki-horse*

[darthneko.livejournal.com]

The Morrigan, goddess and person.

[taennyn]

*cheerful* Someone's owned.


The person may be one of the strongest-willed people on the face of her planet--or was, at one point. She successfully gave one of the most bloodthirsty, fundamentally inhuman goddesses of the world a 'creeping case of humanity', that's stuck to the point that the goddess will Call, if she feels Herself drifting back to the old ways.
It's had costs--among them the name that the person was born with and raised under, and more than a little of her ability to judge when something is too big to take on, and all of her fear.
She doesn't lie. Her worldview can be as much as thirty degrees off the norm (witness her calling Aodh 'Shiva' on more than one occasion), but within her worldview, she's never lied. In one sense, there's no point in it--she's not 'clever', or a tactician, or anything else that would fit the description. In another . . it's another thing that sets the Goddess apart from what she was, before the human.

--

There are no fords, now, no half-seen warnings of doom and damnation. There are no demands of mortal heros to love or die.
Where once was water and blood and crow's calls, there is laughter and fire and a sheer delight in battle for its own sake, a love of the challenge and the moving. Where once was the Queen of Battles, there is a trust in another to plan, to see the angles and tip the scales.
Where once was only fear, there is love.

She cannot bring Herself to miss what was.

[darthneko.livejournal.com]

....and because you just said I could - baby!Aodh. (er... meaning pre-teenish, more or less.)

[taennyn]

Oh, that's not nice. *eyes cross*


" . . and the silver spoon," the boy hummed absently, trying to flick a curl out of his eyes without letting go of any of the strings, "little boy blue and the man in the moon--" he leaned back, hooking two loops over his bare toes and pulling others taut with his fingers. The enormous cat's cradle collapsed into a thin, complex weave of colours, which he examined critically by extending the foot he had the ends hooked into. "Hnh." He'd missed one cross-over point, a green string now lying next to another instead of next to a gold one, but it was near enough to make the person it was intended for cross his eyes in annoyance while trying to trace the pathway.
Whcih was half the fun, really. Their styles of magic were different enough that he often got lost trying to track the order layers of paint were applied in to create a living portrait, but it meant Sebastian could be counted on to get tangled following a really good cat's cradle.
Aodh brought his foot back up close, unhooking the end threads from his toes and starting to coil the weave into a compact bundle. The next step was folding a paper swallow big enough to fit the 'cradle inside, writing Sebastian's name down the spine, then the whistled sequence his half-sister Madeleine had taught him to bring origami to near-life.
Last time he'd used one of the little birds, Sebastian had sent it back painted delicately with watercoloured inks, a tiny stork now capable of tilting its head and pointing beady black eyes at its surroundings.
He wondered what would happen with this one, and grinned down at it.

[youraugustine.livejournal.com]

baby!Dante. ::griiin::

[taennyn]

. . . Oi.



The fox kit is all fluff over tiny, fragile bones, stretched to his very longest and sniffing delicately at the pie on the windowsill, tail waving idly.

A pause, ears cocked forward to listen to the sounds beyond the windowsill, and the fox becomes a boy, who reaches up, slides the pie off the sill and sneaks away.

[billradish.livejournal.com]

*peeeeeer* ...can one request Thaddeus again? As Merka beat me to that one. =P If not, then Gabriel.

Not that I don't love Gabriel, but I think he helped fix my dinner and the pack's been active all day.

[taennyn]

When he first arrived, he slept in a compact roll, nested right up against the wall in the covers, the pillows ignored. He sleeps now in a boneless sprawl, the covers rucked up and pulled away to expose half of a shoulder blade and a lock of dark, dark green hair. The pillows are hidden under, covering head and most of hair.

[celeloriel.livejournal.com]

Yaaaay for unlimited requests! *is full of GLEE*

Ian, first worldwalk.

[taennyn]

First proper or fi--ehh.


What staggers is not the colour of the sky or the sea--nor is it truly the absence of city and ships--but the way the patterns shift and warp, just by taking two steps forward.

There are no kings and queens here, no courtly lies and tiny threads of fear as the forest-prowlers get ever closer to the walls. Just a green-tinged sky and blue-tinged green water, and a sense that if you knew just how to look, a path you could walk forever.

Ian Sabaey, called Tattersall, took a deep breath, picked three leaves from the bush next to him, and turned back towards home.

[celeloriel.livejournal.com]

(Celeloriel is trying to break my BRAIN)

Am not.
vide_yeux already got there.

*grinsducksruns*

[taennyn]

Aodh's--gnaaah! *waveshandsatyou!*

He doesn't tell me things if I don't ask! And he's never physically met Ian! *flails!*


. . *calms down slightly* . . Nah, just owns my brain, too much effort to break in a new one if he really breaks me.

[darthneko.livejournal.com]

[sneaks in with another request]
Life in general with the family De'Ath.

(pwned? Who, me?)

[taennyn]

The catchphrase for the world/story is gradually becoming 'the Individual before Society' . . and it applies, very, very much to the De'Ath clan. The Brothers are highly unusual--both in their relative closeness in age, and in the fact that they've always functioned as a pair. On the surface, they're very much opposites (they're called Angel and Devil Death in society, for lady's sake. *amused*), but scratch Edmund's surface and you'll find a calculating bastard, and scratch Eduard's and you'll find a man who loves with a stunning sort of ferocity. The family in general is totally individualistic--even their territories don't usually overlap, you'd find one in oh, southern Italy and another in Germany's Black Forest, that sort of thing.
They've never been terribly numerous, but then, they've always been around. They're the only born Deaths, theorised direct descendants of the original Horseman, the original death. The surname carries a weight in the society . . .

even more, now that 'the society' has collapsed back into fair anarchy and the direct cause is a pair of De'Aths.