Dandelyon's Worlds

I’ve lately been frustrated by an odd thing. I see a (Facebook) ad for a book, and the image on the ad is intriguing. It might be a strange fantasy boat, or a character in unusual clothing doing something uniquely magical, or in a weird and lovely garden—whatever it is is unique and riveting. Then I click on the ad and go look at the book, and find that the book has a very generic cover for the genre it’s in. Generic enough that I find it boring.

The image that caught my attention, that made me want to check out the book, is not only nowhere to be found, but the style of the cover is nothing like it. To me, the images look like they belong to not only different stories, but to completely different kinds of story.

And I find myself immediately feeling very disappointed and also less interested in reading the book.

As a writer, I guess I can appreciate that the picture in the ad did what it was supposed to do—catch my attention and get me to click through to where I could buy the book—except that the let-down of seeing a cover that’s nothing like the ad usually leads to me not buying the book.

Now, for the purpose of convincing FB to show me ads for books instead of ads for stuff I'm less interested in, a click-through is a click-through. But for the purpose of actually finding the kind of magical books I want to read this is just not working for me.

I’m wondering if other people have the same or similar experience.

Is this one of those things where my brain just doesn’t work like most people’s? It is the me-as-artist wanting something that is unreasonable to expect? On the other hand, is the “prevailing wisdom” about what types of images to use in ads and covers missing some significant part of the readership? Or …?

As a reader, I find this frustrating, but as a writer I’m curious!

Challenge #1

In your own space, update your fandom information!

Fannishly, I guess I'm primarily a filker, though I love so many stories in print and other media.  I've been filking since my very first convention, Windycon One or Two, and that led to so many wonderful things in my life.  I got to play an autoharp there, which prompted my wonderful siblings to convince my father to buy me one, and that has led to so much of the joy in my life.  The music was a solace through college, where I was very much a misfit, and a joy at nearly every convention I've attended over the years. 

I write songs too, though I'm not as prolific as some of my filker friends.  Filk is what led me to learn about and try FAWM, which is February Album-Writing Month.  The challenge is to write at least 14 songs in the month of February--that is, enough for an album.  The first time I joined, I got a song or two, and counted it a good effort, since that was more songs than I'd have written otherwise.  One of the premises of FAWM is that practicing a thing makes you better at it.  So far, that has proved to be accurate, since every year I've written more songs in February than the previous year.  Last year I got more than 30!  (I'm still astonished).  I spent months getting to really know the best songs I wrote then, so I'm not aiming to keep up the increase in quantity this year.  Instead I'm hoping to increase quality and to also manage to keep up writing at least a little fiction on a daily or almost daily basis.

Writing.  I write fiction too, though not as prolifically as I want to be doing.  Some of that is the emotional and physical chaos.  I'm (still) working on getting my bedroom renovated so I can buy a new bed, and there are still things I haven't found after repeatedly having to hurry to move stuff out of the way of things like roof leaks so they wouldn't be damaged, or out of rooms that had to be emptied and repaired because of those leaks  Writing takes mental bandwidth, so all the things that steal that bandwidth slow me down.

Art.  I paint and do fabric arts.  The fabric arts I love the most are time-intensive, sewing lovely things by hand.  A lot of them owe a lot to crazy-quilt, bringing diverse fabrics and colors and threads together to repair a thing or make something new.  i do some machine sewing too, but the chaos in the house has not been helpful for that either.  The hand sewing is also a meditation for me, sometimes a prayer for the world, that all of the diverse people and beings of this world can come together harmoniously and in beauty.

This started out as a dress.  Initially I repaired the top part with some of the dark blue flowers you see here, but eventually that didn't hold and I turned it into an altar cloth.  I am slowly lining the last unlined bits, and hope one day to have reinforced the fragile initial fabric enough that it won't need any new repairs.

This is a painting I did of a frog leaping into the sky.  I took the picture with the paintbrush on it, and decided I liked the whimsy of having it look like the frog is grabbing it.  The painting is acrylics on an 8 inch square canvass.

So, that's a little about me and my creative life.  It's that openness to creativity, both making your own and celebrating what others make, that drew me to and keeps me in fandom, I think.  Nobody here tells me it's a waste of time to sing a song, read a book, or sew flowers and butterflies on something old.

I wrote a bit for patreon, released first to my patrons, but set to become public after a while. Now I'm putting it here because I'd love some conversation about the things I was musing about.

If you want to see things like this or excerpts from works in progress, you could follow (or even properly join) my patreon.

:)

I’ve been reading Tarot cards for a very long time, but the Tarot is still mysterious to me. It seems to work—but how? I’ve done readings for so many people who say the reading was spot-on, people I know, people I don’t, people online and far away. But it’s more than that. I’ve done readings in LARPs and role-playing games too, in character, and the reading proved accurate for the character (and not the player).

A character has no physical presence in the world, except insofar as it is embodied by the player or writer. If one follows the theory that someone’s aura, their physical or mystical presence, somehow interacts with the world, that would imply that characters, even casually created characters that have only been imagined for hours or days, still have a mystical presence that is strong enough to interact with the cards’ mystical presence.

It seems even more mysterious to me when I’m drawing cards for a story, where all the characters are only in my head (or some other writer's head) until words flow through fingertips onto the screen or page. I mean, if even their creator doesn’t know what the plot is or who these imaginary people are, how can the cards possibly interact with their mystical presence?

Yet I get good readings when I use the cards as prompts for stories, or for plot points in a story that’s stuck, and I've also had other people tell me they found readings I gave them were helpful

Doing readings over the internet also means the people I’m interacting with aren’t there to physically interact with the cards. How does this mystical presence thing work when there are hundreds or thousands of miles between the cards and the querant? If it’s a mystical presence thing at all.

Another theory, of course, is that the cards are truly random, and any meaning is created by the human mind. With that theory, it’s easy to explain why the cards work for writing: I’m using the cards to get me thinking, like any other set of prompts. Which doesn’t explain why the cards work better for me than a random plot or random character generator. I suppose that could just be that I’m more inspired by pretty pictures, or that the symbolism on the cards I use works for me.

That theory might explain how I can do accurate (or at least accurate-seeming) readings in person for people I know. My mind can, in theory, create meaning because I know the querant or because I can read their reactions as I talk.

It’s not a convincing explanation for how I personally do readings in person for strangers, especially since I’m not particularly good at picking up on body language, and when I started doing readings (and having them pronounced accurate) I was pretty abysmal at it. Not the cards, I was abysmal at reading people. That theory also doesn’t explain how I can do accurate readings for strangers over the internet.

Like I said, it’s mysterious.

The scientist in me is frustrated by the lack of explanations. The mystic in me, however, finds the lack of explanation, the fundamental mystery of it, quite satisfying. It says to the rest of me that we are finite beings in an infinite world. There should be things we don’t understand.

My approach to fantasy is like that too. The scientist in me wants to understand how magic works, and why, and for it to be predictable. But still, when reading or writing, I’m more drawn to the mysterious, the unexplained, sometimes even the unexplainable. Maybe especially the unexplainable. I find magic in stories most satisfying when there’s a lot of wonder, and very little “game mechanics.” Or to put it another way, when it feels magical.

And never mind that that other side of me never stops trying to find the explanations. Or maybe that’s a part of the attraction? Here’s a thing I don’t know yet. How can I not want to get to know it better, to find it in the wild (even if just in the wilds of my own imagination) and try to tame it?

Is it a kitten or a lion cub or something totally unexpected? With time, persistence, and patience, perhaps I’ll find out.

The holidays are always busy, and always fraught with food-danger. I lost most of Christmas Day to food allergies, but had a good Christmas anyway, getting to see family and being gifted with way too many Deirdre-safe cookies and even a pie by my daughter. Oh, well, those will keep.

But that put me behind on writing things, and I ended up working on a story far too late into the night today. But I did finish it by the deadline to submit it--and when I read it aloud after submitting it, found almost no typos. (I'd rather none at all, of course, but a 4000+ word story with only a couple of typos isn't horrible.)

So, here we are on New Year's Day, looking at a new year that, I hope, will bring better things to us all than the old one did. Come, visit a while, and I'll do a reading if you want.

As always, New friends and old are very welcome.

(Edit: I tried to put a picture in here and kept getting an error message. *sigh*)

About the readings,

You can simply ask for a single card (with the usual clarifying card for people who tip). The guitar case below is my personal PayPal link, featuring my own artwork, which still inspires me even though it isn't Tarot-related.

I am also offering a five-card reading for $25, or if you want a larger reading we can discuss costs. A signal boost for readings or for my Patereon will allow you to ask for a clarification card on some part of this reading, if you wish.

Regardless of the length of the reading, you may ask about real life or a creative project, even for a character you play in a game. I can draw a card for you to meditate on, to represent the Guide you need right now, or to get you unstuck. I can draw a card for your protagonist or villain, or can draw a card or cards for you to use as writing or art prompts, and I can modify a more-traditional five-card spread into a prompt for a story focusing on plot or characters or a little of both. Let me know if you have any particular request.

For free one card readings, you can pick from my decks, including the Brian Froud's Faeries Oracle, the Daughters of the Moon Tarot (one of the round decks), or the Shapeshifter Tarot. If you want a Guide to companion you in the new year or the holidays, the Susan Seddon Boulet or Fairies Oracle both work well. If you don't pick a deck, I might pick from any of the decks available to me.

The first card is free (though tips are always appreciated). I understand all too well that when people don't have cash or spoons that is generally when they most need inspiration. Don't be afraid to ask for a card if you can't tip.

When you tip, it's helpful to me for you to mention it here so I can connect your Paypal information with your request. Tips should be at least $2 (Paypal charges fees). If Paypal doesn't work for you, drop me a message and we'll work something out.

I will reply to all requests, though with the holidays, there may be a delay in getting to you.

Thank you, Blessed Be, and may your new year be full of joy and dreams made happily true!

Status: Open!

As always, while I work hard to offer insight and inspiration, all I can legally promise is entertainment. See my "Dandelyon's Readings" page if you have questions.

I've been busy.  I made a Patreon Page, but what with conventions and Thanksgiving and so much else, I've had the start of a post telling people about it hanging out on my computer for days.   So there's a couple of posts (one free and one for supporters) there that no one  has seen or commented on, and I have no patrons at all yet.  

I also have started to figure out all the things I should do before I close my LJ account. 

And I won NaNoWriMo, finishing a young adult novel and starting the sequel.  I also rewrote the prequel, though I didn't count that toward my word count. 

And I called my congress critters. (Shame on my Republican Senator for allowing a vote on an unfinished and unread bill!).  I even managed to catch Ho-Oh.

And now I'd better pay bills and sign up for healthcare and make my lists (and check them twice) and...lots of stuff!

So I feel reasonably accomplished, and yet totally behind too!  Oh, well, such is life. 

And here it is, the full moon again.  It's allegedly the "Cold Moon", though it's been in the 50s out during the day.  Climate change is no joke, folks.  

But still, it's the full moon, and so it is time for readings.  New friends and old are very welcome.

About the readings,

You can simply ask for a single card (with the usual clarifying card for people who tip). The guitar case below is my personal PayPal link, featuring my own artwork, which still inspires me even though it isn't Tarot-related.

I am also offering a five-card reading for $25, or if you want a larger reading we can discuss costs. As always, a signal boost will allow you to ask for a clarification card on some part of this reading, if you wish. Alternatively, for at least $10 you can ask for a Torn World reading and get an in-character reading set in Affamarg or the Breidalam Mountains using that world's standard layout for the divination disks.

Regardless of the length of the reading, you may ask about real life or a creative project, even for a character you play in a game. I can draw a card for you to meditate on, to represent the Guide you need right now, or to get you unstuck. I can draw a card for your protagonist or villain, or can draw a card or cards for you to use as writing or art prompts, and I can modify a more-traditional five-card spread into a prompt for a story focusing on plot or characters or a little of both. Or I could do something completely different.  Let me know if you have any particular request.

For free one card readings, you can pick from the Brian Froud's Faeries Oracle, the Daughters of the Moon Tarot (one of the round decks), or the Shapeshifter Tarot. If you don't pick a deck, I might pick from any of the decks available to me.

The first card is free (though tips are always appreciated). Paid readings, short or long, also let you ask me to use any of my other decks, including but not limited to my combined Susan Seddon Boulet Animal Spirits and Goddesses cards and my Fantasy Showcase Tarot deck where each card was done by a different science fiction/fantasy artist.

Tipping can also be used to request a private reading.

Signal boosts are very much appreciated, and also earn you the right to ask for a clarifying card. (If you only signal boost, please do not ask for two cards to start with. A clarifying card, if the reading is unclear to you, is fine.)

I understand all too well that when people don't have cash or spoons that is generally when they most need inspiration. Don't be afraid to ask for a card if you can't tip.

When you tip, it's helpful to me for you to mention it here so I can connect your Paypal information with your request. Tips should be at least $2 (Paypal charges fees). If Paypal doesn't work for you, drop me a message and we'll work something out.

I've written before about why I do readings and about some of the decks I use here, feel free to hop over and check me out. I'll wait.

I will reply to all requests. In the highly unlikely event that the number of requests nears my limits, I'll close this card draw by changing the status line below rather than risk leaving anyone without a response.

Thank you, and Blessed Be!

Status: Open to free one-card readings until I go to sleep Monday night (which will doubtless be well after midnight) and open to tipped readings until this status message is changed.

As always, these readings are for entertainment and inspiration only. See my "Dandelyon's Readings" page if you have questions.

So, computers operate on planned obsolescence. Unlike a washing machine or stove (a good one of those is designed to last for at least a decade), computers are designed to fail after a few years. And that’s not a bad thing—we’re still making enough advances in computer technology, both hardware and software, and in how we use computers in our lives, that after a few years, a computer doesn’t do what most people want it to do. So for most of us, it doesn’t make sense to pay five times as much to have higher-quality materials and workmanship and have the thing last four times as long.

Knowing that, when my now-old computer started acting up earlier this year, I got a new one. They did eventually manage to fix the old one, but still, I don’t want to trust it with my writing. And I like the new keyboard better.

The thing is, where the old computer had a poor connection to our wifi in my office (which was OK, waiting for stuff to load gave me time to get bored with the unnecessary distractions on the internet and return to writing), the new one just doesn’t connect at all. So every time I’ve wanted to research something or consider submitting things or check e-mail or anything, I’m back in the room with the TV.

Now, in general I can write with the TV on in the background. One story was written mostly with reruns of Criminal Minds as the background soundtrack—some channel was doing a binge. I’d seen them all, mostly more than once, so I could tune in and out pretty seamlessly, and just enjoy the tone of the characters’ voices in the background for a lot of it. It made my partner nuts, though, that she could come in and ask a question about the show, and it became clear to her that I hadn’t even been aware when one episode ended and the next began. Even though I was mostly ignoring it, it seemed to me that the pacing was somehow helping me keep focused on moving the story forward.

But I clearly cannot do productive writing while tracking current events that threaten stuff like my health care or reports on hate crimes against people like me. Nor can I write while watching a new show that I like, one where I want to actually follow the plot, or a show like Face Off where I want to actually look at the TV screen. So sitting in the room where we have the cable coming in just isn’t working for me. And sitting in the office, with no internet at all—well, though I’ve heard it recommended as a way to increase productivity, it isn’t working for me. I can’t research, I can’t read writers’ blogs for inspiration (or to feel challenged/ashamed/inspired by their word counts), I can’t do word wars, I can’t put on Pandora and listen to music chosen specifically as a mood-setter for the story, I can’t submit stuff, and so on. I can’t do mindless noodling-games while I consider how to fix plot holes and the like. I can’t even bribe myself with sites like Written Kitten (once I get going, those things are not a good distraction, but sometimes they can get me moving when other tricks don’t).

It’s all part of my current focus on boundaries and sacred space. They don’t mean the same thing to everyone—and doesn’t mean the same thing even to me all the time. I have, in the past, been able to write while news is on—but then we had a President who was working hard for the interests of people like me. For me the “no internet” boundary that so many people suggest isn’t functional, but I need to be able to curate the internet and other media in ways that help to inspire me and help me to stay focused. And it’s very clear to me that right now, that means getting out of earshot of the news for a while every single day.

So I’d determined that the modem needed to move, but not gone out and bought the very long co-ax cable I’d need, and then fate kindly intervened. We had an issue with the cable signal (it was making both TV and internet cut out briefly at the most irritating times) and they sent out a tech. So, while he was here, I asked for a longer co-ax cable so I could move the modem into the hallway, where it will be a few feet further from my computer if I’m in the TV room, but almost 20 feet closer to the office. If I’d called them to ask them to send a tech to move the modem, that would have cost money—but him coming out to fix a service issue, that is already part of what I pay for. He left me a cord, since replacing old cords is also free, if they happen to be here anyway.

So, this morning, I got up and cleaned off the tall bookshelf I plan to put it on. Then I’ll snake the cord up through the (ugly) drop ceiling (I want to just fix the plaster ceiling and get rid of that thing, but I have lots of higher-priority stuff to attend to first) and drop it down and through the doorway to get to the bookshelf, and I can move the modem! (My partner wants to drill a hole in the wall up above the door so we’ll be able to shut the door, but since we never shut that door anyway, that’s another project that is low priority. Unless while we’re stringing the cord through the ceiling, she gets the drill and just does it. I’m good with using the doorway.)

And then, moving the modem itself can be accomplished, and the circle of internet will cover the house more properly, and there will be much celebration. At least, I will celebrate.

Hah—I wrote all this and didn’t hit “post”, so if you can read this, all this work did what it was supposed to, since I just moved the modem.

Finally, readings are still open, if you want one, head over here.  You can also share your thoughts about Patreon over there, or here if you prefer.  But if you want a reading, please head over there.  Thanks!

So, there I was, happily writing on the current novel, when I realized we had to leave right away (in the middle of a climactic scene!) or we'd miss Mystique​'s doctor appointment. The sun was shining, the cats were playing, and all was well with the world. Well, the outer world. In the world of the novel, all was definitely not well, and was quickly getting worse. I was excited to see how things would play out, and my fingers were flying on the keyboard.

Oh, well, no help for it but to get up and go. Good doctors are like mothers. The more you reliably show up when they want to see you, the easier it is to convince them that there is a real emergency when one happens.

So then it was drive and drive and wait and wait and see the nice doctor (who really is a nice woman) and talk about all the routine boring things that people with chronic illness have to talk to their doctors about.

After that, a quick stop at the natural foods store that is just a couple of blocks from the doctor's office (well, that was the plan). This trip was mostly for my food, so a "quick stop" meant reading all the ingredients (in temporal duplicate) to make very sure there's nothing in the food that I'm allergic to and none of the manufacturers have changed their recipes. Then get in line. Wait and wait. Tell the checker that the fruit isn't black or red plums, it's pluots. Pack stuff into the bags we brought. Then to the pharmacies.

Oh, but first, rush hour traffic. Drive and wait, drive and wait, and then drive and wait some more. I've read that some people plan out their novels while driving; I don't know how they can do that. I'm just fine with talking on my cell phone (hand-free) while driving. That isn't more distracting to me than talking to someone who's physically in the car. But plotting novels? I tried it once, and I got so very, very lost. I do zone out while reading, and apparently also while writing, even the purely mental part of the process. Being totally uninterested in experiencing an automobile accident first-hand, I'm not trying that one again. So, when the rush hour traffic devolved into coast and brake, coast and brake, over and over and OVER again, all it did was waste time.

Then the pharmacies. (Wait--I said that already, and now you're wondering about the plurality.) One pharmacy has a pharmacist who's very helpful, but a computer system that loses one of the doctors' prescriptions. They're not perfect; the pharmacist has been unable to get one of my medicines for over a month, unless I want to buy the brand name at full price instead of the generic with the help of my insurance (though if I was completely out of it, they might approve me making a copay for the brand name at this point). But the nice pharmacist is working on that. The other pharmacy gets the one doctors' prescriptions reliably, but is less helpful in other ways. Happily, Mystique's insurance will cover prescriptions at both locations (unlike mine).

Recently, Mystique's insurance suggested she move to getting most of her meds on a three-month basis instead of every month. That's a good thing, except there seems to always be one or another prescription that gets filled for one month, either due to pharmacy error or a doctor's error in filling out the electronic prescription form, which apparently defaults to a one month prescription. So, go to one place, wait while they fix the one that was filled for only one month, then to the other to find out they didn't fill all of the prescriptions, only about half, so we'll have to wait a half hour while they do their thing. While waiting, get a call from the first place that one of the bottles didn't get put back into the bag when they were fixing the one filled for 30 days instead of 90. Circle back to get the missing bottle, then back again to get the last of the prescriptions, but one of the newly filled prescriptions was only filled for one month! *sigh* How on earth do people who are too sick to think straight or who just lack mental spoons manage?

Eventually, we got home to put groceries away and figure out dinner, and I was very pleased that my reusable cloth bag collection includes a couple of insulated zippered things designed for carrying cooked or cooled stuff to parties or picnics. The stuff we got frozen at the grocery store was still frozen when we finally arrived home.

The cats, who think we should stay home and pet, play with, and feed them on demand all day, were not impressed.



Now I'm yawning, a reminder that I need to make an appointment to try on CPAP masks, since I lost enough weight that the one I've been using isn't fitting so well any more. But it's too late to do that today!

And my poor characters, who are in the middle of confronting the faceless opponent who has been causing them misery for many chapters now, are likely to stay that way until tomorrow. Hang in there, folks, you'll figure it out, I have faith in you.

This is Denel's reading, posted here for ellenmillion. It's a little long to post as a comment in the card draw, so I'm giving it its own post.

Note: Torn World’s language does not use gendered pronouns, and their names are also not marked as one gender or another. As Rai-Kunabei arrives in Affamarg, she has not yet heard any detail that would let her know if Scientist Oranaan is male, female, or no-gender.

The Shaman and the Scientist

Rai-Kunabei looked out of the window as the train rumbled into Affamarg. The thing was noisy and smelly, but she had to admit it was more biddable than a goat. It also moved faster than she could walk, and saved her the trouble of carrying her bag of divination disks and her bulkier, but lighter bag of clothing. The attendant had also helped her improvise a way to secure her staff, with its dangling bells and wraith-scarred spinning balls, so that she didn’t have to hold it all day to prevent it from falling and hitting some poor citizen in the head.

The city was all straight lines and crisp 90 degree angles, and none of the buildings had a fringe of bells strung over the roof. It looked so strange to her mountain-bred eyes. Her people built homes in low, sheltered spots or on gentle hillocks that had good views of the surrounding mountains. Buildings might have four corners, like the ones here, or five or seven. But the biggest difference was the roads—mountain roads curved with the hills and valleys; these each ran straight from the rail line to the horizon. There must be many hundreds of people living in this lowland city, none of whom would understand her sacred role as priestess. Once again, and despite her long-standing desire to see the world, she wondered, what was she doing here?

It was an emotional response, of course, not a logical one. Logically, she knew that the lowland scientists had invited her to this far northern city to learn what she knew of the mysterious danger that haunted her world’s heights. She glanced away from the window to the letter she clutched, like a talisman, in her hand. It had been delivered to her home, high in the Affabreidalam mountains, in a fat envelope filled with special licenses.

The licenses were tucked into her pouch; this Oranaan had promised to meet her train, and she certainly hoped he would do so, or at least would send someone. She had no idea whatsoever how to find her way around that huge city without assistance—all the streets looked identical to her eyes, and she imagined herself wandering for months down the identical straight streets, wasting away into a wraith herself.

Kunabei laughed at her own fancy, drawing cautious looks from the people in the same train car. Logically, she knew she could ask for directions, and any Monitor would take a look at the letter and licenses, and help her on her way. You’d think she was a crochety great-grandmother, lost a bit in her age and incapable of dealing with the slightest challenge.

In reality, she was a young woman, but definitely old enough to be past letting nerves make her fanciful, except, she thought, that she was bored. For days, she’d been whizzed along, passing the countryside so fast she couldn’t examine the wildlife and plants, much less enjoy their beauty or see how they differed from the ones she was used to. And though there was plenty of time, not a single person had asked for a reading or requested more mundane advice.

She looked again at the letter and wondered who this Oranaan was, besides an important, brilliant, and, by people’s reactions, eccentric scientist. She imagined someone like her grandmother, vibrant despite age and experience, with a sassy sense of humor. Or maybe someone like her grandfather, who compensated for his wife’s fame as a priestess by dressing in the gaudy, bright-colored clothing and jewelry, and flirting with all the old people. She remembered the tales of Oraaan blowing up things and setting his workplace on fire, and decided the scientist must be more like her grandmother.

The train started to slow, and Kunabei checked to be sure her bags were tied securely shut. The people running the trains had little tolerance for people who weren’t ready to disembark promptly. Travel was a privilege and required special licenses, so travelers were expected to be prepared for the normal events of a train trip.

The train pulled into Affamarg Station and lurched to a stop. Kunabei stood and untied her staff from the wall of the train. She slung her clothes onto her back and lifted the divination disks. They made a satisfying weight for her hand. She followed the other passengers to the door and into a room where a Monitor checked licenses.

The Monitor, a tall, very pale man, read her personal and travel licenses carefully, glanced at her priestess license and stopped, looking up at her. “Rai?”

Kunabei nodded, using every bit of calm authority she had learned since killing the wraith. “It’s a traditional title.”

He started to leaf through the multiple pages dubiously.

Kunabei smiled, and offered her letter. “I was asked here to meet with Scientist Oranaan.”

“Oranaan, huh? What does the Scientist need with a--a Priestess?”

Rai Kunabei was pretty sure he had a different word in mind. “I do not believe he wants to consult me in that capacity. I believe he has questions about certain phenomena I witnessed in the mountains.”

The Monitor apparently found her answer dull, which didn’t disappoint Kunabei at all. He folded her licenses together and tucked them back in her pouch. “Here you go, Citizen.” He handed her the pouch and then a small booklet of local rules and regulations. “Be careful, Citizen. Oranaan had a fire in the laboratory again just last week. My sister’s kid said Oranaan was tasked with teaching safety in second form.”

She laughed at that. “Teaching is a good way to learn, actually.”

But the Monitor had already turned to the next person in line, so Kunabei strode toward the door.

At the far end of the waiting room, she saw two people in Indigo scientists’ robes. One was a demure-looking woman, and the other was a very young man with tousled hair. The man was waving his arms, talking animatedly, and barely missed knocking a hat off of a passing matron. Though she couldn’t hear them, from the look on her face it was clear that the woman started scolding him, and he dropped his hands to his sides, then she saw Kunabei and gestured, stepping past him to walk toward her.

Kunabei smiled with relief, and walked forward to greet the woman. “Scientist Oranaan. It is good to meet you and your assistant.”

The woman blushed and dimpled. “Rai Kunabei?“

Kunabei nodded.

“Welcome to Affamarg. I am Scientist Denel, and this,” she gestured to the young man, who was gaping at her, “is Scientist Oranaan. How was your trip?”

Up close, Oranaan looked a little less like a scatterbrained teenager, though it was clear he’d never been mistaken for his own assistant before.

“I’m sorry, Scientist Oranaan, no one ever told me what you look like.”

He suddenly grinned, an expression that didn’t exactly make him handsome, but was so very alive and genuine, Kunabei grinned back at him. He turned to the other scientist. “You see, Denel, you should have more faith in your ability to impress people. She thought you were me!” He turned back to Rai Kunabei. “Here, let me help you!” He reached forward and grabbed the bag of divination disks, just under where Kunabei held it, swinging it toward him before getting her permission.

Kunabei let go of the bag—he was a lowlander, after all, and didn’t know he was being disrespectful.

The bag swung into Oranaan’s shins. “Ow!” He gave Kunabei a measuring look. “What’s in here?”

Kunabei smiled, deciding that she liked this impulsive young man. Despite giving himself what would doubtless be substantial bruises, he had not dropped the bag. “Those are my divination disks.”

Denel laid her hand on Kunabei’s arm. “Are you hungry? There’s a restaurant near here that claims to serve Affabreidalam-style food, or we can go get some traditional Mojeveterk specialties if you prefer.”

Oranaan’s stomach rumbled. “Oh, yes! Can we get you some food?”

Kunabei nodded. “I’d like to try the local food, if that’s all right. I’ve never been further than Affabreidalam before.”

They guided her across the street and Oranaan was greeted by name at the restaurant. Soon, they had a good-sized table and Oranaan presented a chit and ordered a sampler plate.

When the server left, Oranaan started to untie the bag of disks.

Denel put her hand over his. “Oranaan, my boys know better than to open someone else’s luggage.”

He blushed. “Ah, I apologize, Rai Kunabei. It’s just I’ve never seen divination disks before.”

“I could do a reading for you, but our tradition is that the Rai should not do readings for the disrespectful. And as Rai, it is my job to uphold the traditions.”

Oranaan’s face fell. “But I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

“That’s all right. You can ask again tomorrow.”

He looked woefully at the bag, and then back at her face. “Wait—Denel wasn’t disrespectful, was she?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you could do a reading for Denel!”

“I only do readings for people who ask for them.”

The server arrived with a large platter of food, and set it in the middle of the table, placing small plates in front of each of them. Oranaan turned to Denel, “You will ask for a reading, won’t you?”

Denel thanked the server and shifted the topic to the different foods on the sampler plate.

Oranaan sighed, “Denel? Will you?”

Denel smiled at him fondly. “I might ask after lunch.” She pointedly turned to Kunabei and asked, “What would you like to try first?”

Lunch was pleasant, and most of the foods were very good, if a little sweeter than Kunabei was used to. Oranaan threw himself into the role of host with evident enjoyment of the food, but his eyes darted back to the leather bag holding the disks even while he related hilarious stories about his mostly-failed first attempts to cook the dishes she was tasting.

Kunabei started to wonder how much of Oranaan’s reputation for carelessness was really a reflection of his joy in being outrageous. Did this reputation let him achieve more leeway to do unconventional experiments than he would otherwise get away with?

The server brought out some after-meal pastries, which proved to be even sweeter than the lunch itself.

Finally, when the server had cleared away all the food and left them with hot drinks (Kunabei had managed to score an unsweetened tea, to her relief), Denel asked Kunabei about the divining disks.

“It would take too long, I think, to try to talk about all of them now. But I could give you a reading, if you like.”

Denel paused just long enough to see Oranaan biting his lower lip, and then responded, “Yes, please. I would like that.”

Rai Kunabei untied the bag. “Do you have a particular question?”

“I—do I need to?”

“No. But you can choose to.”

Denel thought for a minute, but then shook her head. “No particular question—no, wait—tell us about our research, if you can.”

Kunabei nodded. “All right then. The simplest reading is three disks. The first one shows you the nature of the situation the reading is about.” She started to reach in to the bag, then paused, glancing rom Denel to Oranaan. “You do have the right to privacy if you want it.”

Oranaan opened his mouth, holding up a hand.

Denel laughed. “No, no. It’s fine for Oranaan to watch.”

He sat back in his chair.

“That’s what I thought you wanted, but you can’t learn the traditions unless I share, since you did not grow up in the mountains.”

Denel nodded. “That makes sense.”

“All right, I shall begin.” Kunabei reached into the bag and pulled out a disk. It was big enough to cover her entire palm, and was made of soft, shiny bronze. She turned it over to show an enameled image of a hammer smashing some piece of wooden furniture.

“The nature of the problem is Destruction, the embodiment of human-made endings. Whatever you are studying, human actions have made the situation worse, or perhaps caused the situation, either recently or in the distant past.”

Oranaan held out his hand. “May I look at the disk, please?”

Kunabei let it slide gently from her own hand to his. Most people, faced with the image of destruction, didn’t want to touch it, but this young scientist was fearless. He turned it over and over, running his fingers over the metal and enameled sides of the disk.

Kunabei turned to Denel. “The second disk has to do with the tools that are involved in the situation, which, in this case could be either the tools that were or are used to bring about this situation, or it could be the tools you need to address the problem.”

Denel nodded her understanding.

Kunabei reached into the bag and drew out another disk. This one was gold, and showed an elder seated on the ground, a bag by her knee and holding scorched ball whistles in her hands. It was a tolerable likeness of Kunaei’s grandmother, though the artist who made it had never met the old priestess. “This is the Shaman, who is the embodiment of abstract knowledge. From this, I would say that physical tools are of limited use in addressing the problem you are studying. Human perception, intelligence and the knowledge handed down from our ancestors will be vital to understanding what is going on. That is interesting, because usually the knowledge and attitudes that shed light on the topic at hand shows up as the third disk.”

She passed the Shaman to Oranaan, then reached in a final time and brought out an iron disk. The image enameled on one side was a sheer cliff, with a tiny figure clinging precariously to the rock. “The Cliff, which is the dangerous aspect of borders.” Kunabei fell silent, considering the disk. “It might be that the knowledge you need has been passed down by people in very different parts of the world, so that the social divisions remaining from the old borders are a barrier to obtaining the information you need. Or perhaps this is more literal, and the old borders have something to do with the problem. Or maybe,” she looked over at Oranaan, “it could simply be a warning that pushing your licenses to their limits is perilous in and of itself, and the chaos you cause could be threatening your effectiveness to obtain the information you need.”

Oranaan frowned at that. “You’ve heard stories about me. Is that all this is, stories?” He gestured at the disks.

Kunabei shrugged. “Stories are an effective way to teach, and to get people thinking about their problems in a new way. If you are asking me is there some science behind which disk is drawn when, all I can say is that if there is, I don’t know it. All I can offer is my personal observations that people who ask for readings do get some benefit from the experience.”

She placed the final disk into Oranaan’s hand, and unhooked her own scorched ball whistle from her staff, which was leaning in a corner. “It’s similar to this—I didn’t see what scorched this whistle, but something did. It’s not very satisfactory that I cannot tell you what a wraith looks like or why it attacks people in the highlands, but I take comfort from knowing that the whistle protected me.”

Oranaan dropped the disks into Denel’s hands and reached for the ball. “This—this came into contact with an anomaly? And you were there? You survived? You’re not mad?” He stopped short of touching it. “May I hold it?”

Kunabei nodded. “I met a wraith in the mountains and survived. That is how I came to be the shaman for my people.” She put the ball into his hands. “Certainly you can look at it. But remember it is sacred to me. You may not subject it to explosions or laboratory fires or do anything else to it without letting me know exactly what you plan and getting my prior approval.”

Reluctantly, he nodded, but still, Kunabei watched him carefully as she took the disks from Denel and returned them to her bag. As she tied it up, the server walked up and bowed to the scientists. “If you are finished with your lunch, we would like to clean this area and get set up for the dinner crowd.”

“Oh, of course. I apologize, we didn’t realize how late it has gotten. Denel took the ball from Oranaan and handed it back to Kunabei, who tied it securely to her staff.

Oranaan smiled at the young woman and reached into a pocket, taking out a thin sliver of metal that shone with swirls of bright color, almost like the mystery disk in Kunabei’s bag.

Oranaan stood and pulled out a pen and signed the rectangular bit of metal, then handed it to the server. “I’m not much of an artist, but this is part of a plate that was damaged in the last laboratory fire. It is, if nothing else, unique.

The server’s eyes grew round, and he took the slip of metal. “Thank you, Scientist. You are welcome to return any time.”

They guided Kunabei back outside into the sunlight, and turned left. Denel started laughing as soon as the door closed behind them. “You turned your—your slag—into tip cards? Oranaan, you are incorrigible!”

Oranaan smiled, and offered his free arm to Kunabei. “Let us take you to the room we reserved for you, and then we can go find an Assistant to take notes while you tell us all about your encounter with the wraith.”

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As usual, this is posted prior to Canon-Board review, so it may be edited for coninuity. There are other stories about Rai-Kunabei, Denel, and Oranaan over at www.TornWorld.net

Sandie read the local papers obsessively, though most of them weren’t even on paper any more. They had kept her finger on the pulse of her City, so she could sell feature articles and humor pieces to the magazines. Now she also read the #Chicaugwa twitter stream and various local blogs and Facebook pages too. Chicaugwa was endlessly fascinating, vibrant and alive.

But today she frowned as she read. There were more want ads, but people complained of insufficient jobs. Apartment ads were plentiful, and house sales were down. Economic indices were up, but the spirit of the people of Chicago was unhappy, restless, even hopeless. She had seen it first on the street, in the grocery stores and restaurants, but now it was everywhere, even on MySpace. People were leaving, packing up their families and pets, abandoning beloved jobs, and, like it was an afterthought, putting their dream homes into the hands of harried real estate agents. It just didn’t make sense.

Sandie picked up the next neighborhood paper and scanned it, then shook her head. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, but this only showed the symptoms. She would have to go out and find the cause—but where?

It was time to check a different source of information. The old ways were usually vague or as maddeningly symbolic and obscure as the Delphic Oracle, but sometimes they were needed.

She cleaned her dining room carefully and took the leaves out of the center of the tablee, leaving herself with a proper circle to work on. She laid out a fine, microfiber tablecloth, then set five candles equidistant around the edge and lit them. Five tiny carved cats, each with a cone of incense were next. Then she started to spread the papers on the dining room table. For this, she needed real paper, so she identified a number of the puzzling articles and posts online and set her printer to chattering.

She shifted the papers until the pictures, columns of text, tweets, and advertisements shaped into a pentacle, and the whole table was covered. Finally, at the center of the table, she placed the stand for her crystal ball. It was brass, and depicted five cats, each with different precious stones for eyes—amber, opal, peridot, sapphire, and amethyst. Finally, she lifted the crystal ball from its case and set it carefully on the stand. It was natural quartz, expensive and beautiful.

Then she lit the incense and breathed deep, walking around the table and opening her inner eyes. She sank into the process; she had inherited enough of the catkin magic for this, but only barely. She chanted as she walked, waiting until she felt the flare of the magic deep inside, then turned toward the table and opened her eyes.

She was facing the cat with opal eyes, and saw its tail twitch angrily. It was not looking at her, however. It was looking over at a picture of the Lakefront earlier that year, the article about tourists visiting the ice caves before everything in the city had gone nuts.

Sandie didn’t remember printing that article, much less placing it on the table.

She whispered to the cats, “Show me, please—who is messing with my city?” She leaned over the table and gazed into the ball. Immediately, as clearly as if it were a cute baby animal post on Facebook, she saw a beaver frolicking in icy waters, swimming in circles, up and down and around and around. She watched for a moment, but like a facebook video, that was really all there was to it. As expected, a riddle.

She sighed and looked at the cat, and was surprised to find herself looking at the one with amethyst eyes. She sighed with relief. The cats were willing to answer more than one question, this time. That was rare, and precious, and probably meant that her city was in even more trouble than she had realized. She considered, then asked, “Where should I look first?”

All the articles she had been reading spun in front of her eyes, as if to say, “everywhere”. She pushed at the magic harder and leaned in to look at the crystal ball. Words from headlines and ads flashed by as the articles kept spinning, faster and faster. Animal rights, natural habitat, pollution, wilderness. Then she was too dizzy to focus and the magic she could call, exhausted, was slipping away.

It wasn’t enough! She reached, swinging her arms out, reaching in an attempt to grab at least one more clue, and her left hand hit a small glass bottle, knocking it over.

What? She had cleaned the room! Where did the bottle come from?

Dizzy, she fell against the wall. She was by one of the doorways, and she grabbed the moulding there, looking over at the table. What had she hit?

An open bottle of indelible India ink lay there, open, on its side. She watched as the ink spread across the papers on the table, forming a complex set of perfect concentric circles, each one overlaid with strange symbols. She watched in horror as the ink sank into the paper, twisting faces from smiles into grimaces of fear or anger or longing and obliterating or reshaping words. The smoke from her incense cones swerved in the still air of her apartment to avoid the area.

She’d gotten her additional clue—someone had cursed Chicaugwa, cursed her city carefully and thoroughly.

She stared in horror at the mess on her dining room table, knowing that it had become her responsibility to rescue her city, though she didn’t have the training or the magical power to even really understand what had been done. And the symbolism of the India ink was not lost on her. The curse had already soaked into the fiber of the City, like a stain on the tapestry woven by the fates.

__________________

Thank you to tigertoy for the prompt!

If you like what you read, and want to encourage me to put more time into one or another of my projects, please let me know. Requests from people who sponsor me will get priority!

With thanks to ankewehner, for the prompt, here is another Catkin ficlet. I am also posting this as my #flashfriday story. I'm hoping to do this more often, though I've been focusing on finishing a novel, whose working title is Clockwork Dragon.

H is for Helpful

Bindi walked the frozen alleys restlessly, changing from human to cat form when the moon rose. Sean followed, his sleek black pelt letting him hide in the shadows. As they drew near to her apartment, he came over to her, rubbing against her brown-furred shoulder with his own. He looked pointedly at the open window.

Bindi stood, her dark tail twitching. The neighborhood felt wrong, as if cold air was emanating from the beaches, though it was early in the winter, and the weather maps showed that the lakeside was, as always before midwinter, warmer than the rest of the city.

She jumped to a wall, and murmured the cantrip that tucked her clothes neatly around her skin as she changed to human form again. The black cat jumped to her lap, and waited. Sean was fun in bed, but lacked either the magical talent or the will to practice even such minor spells. Changing back would have left him naked in the snow.

“There’s something wrong,” she told him.

He rolled his eyes, a very human gesture on his slender feline face.

“Yes, I know I’ve said that before. I just wish I knew what it was, or at least where it’s coming from.”
He looked east. From here, they could see Lake Michigan, or at least the part near enough to the shore to have been turned into a frozen wasteland by the unseasonable cold.

“Yeah, the feeling is worse the further east we go, but there’s nothing out there but ice. When we drove up to Waukee and then all the way to Manistee, the bad feeling was clearly coming from the Chicaugwa area, not someplace in the middle of the great lake.”

Sean purred, remembering the pleasantries on the trip, and rubbed against her, looking again at the window.

“I’m really worried,” she said, not reacting to his invitation at all.

He stood on her lap and shimmied, running a dramatic shiver down his body, and looked again at the window.
“You think it’s the cold? I don’t think so. Weatherworking takes a lot of power…but then, tying magic in to the weather isn’t as hard as shaping it.” She petted his head absently, thinking hard. “It still takes more power than one person is likely to have. If some group is casting a spell, tying it into the cold somehow, that could account for me feeling things are getting more ominous every day.” Bindi shivered for real. “They’re not predicting a thaw for weeks. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.” She lifted the black cat up to her face and kissed him. “Thanks, Sean, you’ve been very helpful.” She rubbed his head. “I’ve got to talk to some people about this. See you later.”

Bindi put him down on the windowsill and shifted, her clothes vanishing magically only a moment before she disappeared in the normal feline fashion.

Behind her the tomcat jumped into the window and packed his meagre belongings into his backpack. He left a figurine, a black cat windsurfing, on her dresser to thank her for her hospitality and let her know he was headed to warmer climes. He hesitated, then left a bottle of subtle perfume next to the figurine. The bottle was tied shut with a twist of his own black hair. He would happily take Bindi with him, but Chicaugwa was her territory, and female catkin were as bound to their territory as toms were to wandering. He knew she wouldn’t leave—they never did—but he would be very happy to see her again. And maybe, if this impending doom was bad enough, Bindi would track him down.

He murmured the one cantrip he had mastered, and the enchanted pack shrunk down into a battered-looking collar around his neck. He prowled through the small apartment one last time before leaping to the windowsill and pushing it closed from the outside. He leapt lightly to the alley, and set off. He felt lonely already, but even so, it felt good to be on the road, headed away from whatever doom was aimed at Chicaugwa.