Introverted Wife

A Very Skyrim Valentine

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 00:51:00 +0000

It's fast becoming that time of year when I fill in those gaps left from Hallmark/whoever makes those disturbing gigantism of the eyes in kittens and puppies images.

The first comes courtesy of Bethsda's open world you're probably still trudging through every dungeon even though it was released in November, aren't you?

As always feel free to click, save, print and share with your dragon slaying love or someone you married so you could have a shop in your house.

Another Wacky Idea?

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 15:26:00 +0000

I'm vaguely kicking around the idea of offering up my map making services for anyone else trapped in "Oh crap I wrote a story about some place all in my brain and now people want to be able to see it!"

I personally like a bit of color in my maps, and then aging, as you can see from the two I finished.

But I can just as easily (actually it'd be a lot easier - colors don't come cheap) go for a sepia tone, crisp and clean like a newly stretched pit of vellum. The Indiana Jones animated plane lines are extra.

Okay so I mostly want an excuse to play again. Come on people, if I don't feed the monster it'll grow 40 feet and take down Cedar Rapids!

Surely someone has an old doodle they want to see in vivid poster form? I'm starting to get the shakes!

Just one more project, I swear.

I can't decide!

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 23:05:00 +0000

I need to learn when bored I shouldn't mess around with various cover makers because I always walk away with a million new ideas which leaves me with a new problem, I have no idea which design I want to use.

So I'm asking you which do you prefer for a book cover about something that I haven't bothered to summarize yet because I hate it so much!

Number 1. My first attempt and an excuse to use that map.

Number 2: I'd get a staff on one side and sword on the other but then I'd actually have to come up with an author bio.

Please please tell me which you prefer, there are things I like and don't like about both of them.

Free Blood

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 20:06:00 +0000

It should probably come as no big surprise that I have a lot of fake blood in my house in various forms.

This came in handy when I needed to make a blood layer for my book. With a paint brush, my bottle o' blood and a flicking reminiscent of Dexter I made some splatter that can be laid over just about anything.

Why today I used a small section to help make this:

And because I was rather impressed with it, and I like to share, here is a png of the blood splatter in full glorious red with shades of more red free for use to anyone who needs it.

So go on, take it.

I swear, you shall in no was be indebted to me by taking my free blood.

He he he he he *cough cough* sorry, sweettart got stuck.

I promise.

Birth of an Imaginary Nation

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 13:59:00 +0000

It's that time again, where I pull a few straggling thoughts on geography, decor, and random squiggles to fill empty space from my brain and set out to create a fantasy map.

I like maps, they're an odd comfort in a world where your phone could march you to your death off a cliff and none would be the wiser. Which is, perhaps, why it feels so strange when I doodle out my own.

Being cursed to only be able to take things seriously about 27% of the time (whatever you do, don't steal a gypsie's trombone, they're very protective of their horn section) I can only get in a few story related landmarks before I'm adding inside, outside and inside-out jokes.

But to the meat of the matter at hand, this was the drawing I began with. Black, white, lots of scribbles.

The next step was color and lots of it. This took only around 35 or so layers, I'm doing a lot better than last time when I suspect photoshop had dreams of strangling me with its lasso tool.

Once I'd decided upon fonts and finding the absolute worst places to stick them it was time for the words, which make a map moderately more helpful than an interpretation of an aerial picture.

And for the coup de map, I added a border because borders make everything fancy.

There's still lots of tinkering I'm sure I'll do, and making it sparkle in black and white for when I finally get to proof printing time in the book stage, but here is my wacky land of the elves. Make of it what you will. I suggest a hat.

Essie Thug

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 22:12:00 +0000

After being surprisingly well behaved at the dog park I decided Essie could be rewarded with a trip to the Pet Store where she got a new sweater and a toy she could disembowel.

This was later followed by a bath because I don't want her to think life is all sunshine and tennis balls.

But the sweater is made up to look like a hoodie which means when she refuses to give up the ball I get to mess with her.

This is probably why the dog refuses to let me take her picture, she knows I share the worst with everyone on the net.

Arty Stuff for Books

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 14:46:00 +0000

The nice thing about stumbling into round two of putting words onto a computer screen and then pushing a few of the right buttons so it goes up for sale is that all of my half groping for what in the hell I was going the first time magically turns into my style come round two.

Last time I needed something to spice up the pages where chapters began and scenes turned into other scenes with something other than large blank space and ***. So I sat and thunk and thunk and thunk, had some honey, and then doodled.

I could say I was going for something primitive, a design indicative of early William the Bastard (or Conqueror if one is so inclined to giving credence to such things) art, all lines and no shading.

Or I was lazy.

Take your pick.

So, here I am poking with a large stick at Book Two and drumming up ideas for it. I still wish for the design to be hand drawn so it looks hand drawn so the book looks old but...it can still be cool, yes?

Putting away my mountains and other various land marks that need doodling and life I sketched, shaded and shrunk two designs.

The first is supposed to be sort of vague as it's a spoiler but one no one would get until the very end (Bruce Willis was actually a toaster the whole time).

And, in keeping with my previous book's theme of "hey I can draw swords, I like swords" for the scene change I went with a weapon more heavily involved in this tale:

It's the little things that can turn a book into something magical; a good cover, special fonts, over-sizing the first letter in a chapter, also hiding a shit ton of fairy dust in between the corners but I have to wait for the spring thaw before I can start laying my traps.

I like to think of it as one more tiny step forward to putting all those wacky words I have into something legible.

The maps give me a giant pain in the lower back region but I love making the little chapter/scene art pieces. Now back to mountains, I guess.

Book Cover Sausage

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 13:54:00 +0000

Hello my fellow, er, fellows.

I am elbow deep into my second attempt to take a wacky idea in my head, superglue it to some paper, put on a shiny bow and then share it with the world.

It's going slightly better this round, mostly because I know that I've already done it once before so the second round can't be that much worse. Right? Right?

Already the tale of two toasters that find love across a junkyard (or something about swords, I forget now) held up to the first test; I read through it all for the first major edit and I didn't hate the story. I even kind of liked it and laughed at some of my own jokes (it's also why I take a daily dose of six pills now).

So now it's off to my super secret advanced reader to see what she (or he or maybe it, right Radioactive Engineered Advanced Device Enjoying Reading?) thinks of it, if it makes any bleeding sense or if I should give up now and use what I've gathered to line chinchilla cages.

Normally my next step would be to fret, put the writing away to never look at it for a few months and forget I ever even entertained the idea that I should try to put down over 90,000 words on a single subject.

But I had a wacky idea and eve though winter decided to tumble down the chimney and pound on our kneecaps for a while I took two of my favorite props in the house for a little photoshoot to start work on a possible cover idea.

This is the picture I began with:

Plain, jane, train, vein. So it needed some obvious help with Mr. Photosop. The first was the addition of some texture for the background, books love texture, it helps with teething.

I also found an excuse to pull out my bottle o' blood and used a paintbrush to go all Dexter on a blank sheet of paper. Perfect overlay of gore and violence and other reminders that it isn't Pat The Sword On The Wall.

A little texture is nice, but how about some more? More I say! Give 'er all she can take! Oh and slap a title on for a visualization. That part's still all up for debate (hours and hours of font choice, colors, sizes, placement, passports, insurance, yada yada yada).

For a touch of realisim I tried adding some bark back to the staff but I'm not wild about how it turned out. I might leave some, play around, just lots more work for me and my poor groaning software.

And here's the final play so far, that went from quick shot frozen picture of sword overtop staff to this:

Much like my words, the cover needs a lot of nitpicking but I'm rather proud of what I have so far.

Now to finish the map (I HATE MOUNTAINS!) finish some internal book art and try to remind myself every other day that I can do this and maybe someone will even think of reading it.

Ah creativity, that harsh mistress who'll dangle the carrot of promise and then whack you in the head when you go for it. This is why I break into tears anywhere near carrots.

A Tale Of Two Soups

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 13:38:00 +0000

Winter, that season that encourages warmth and home because you'll find no such welcoming embrace from the wind howling frozen icy death upon your windows.

Or so it would be if this were a normal year and not some kind of weather abomination.

So normally one would want hearty soups/stews/slops to keep the extremities warm once the total shut down begins. I was able to make and sample two soups that, while not suffering through any Regine of Terror or Lack of Scone Terror, were different enough I went with a pun title. I hope you can forgive me.

The First is a Couscous Paella Soup.

Onto the list of things I love for near insane reasons, right under paprika, you can add couscous. It's like pasta but not.

The soup uses Chorizo (which I still have no idea how I was supposed to dice it, perhaps it was supposed to have been cooked first, then re-cooked to be diced.) for a good dash of most of the spice mix.

There's also some chicken but it could have really used some shrimp to bring home that "Take whatever you have and boil it in water from Spain," feel.

Alas, the couscous adds almost nothing to it. One could add rice or orzo and it would probably work better. It seemed the couscous simple vanished into the velvety folds of chicken broth and floating globules of protein.

The Next is a Chicken Stout Stew done up in the slow cooker.

Where the first was spicy this is hearty, where the first was a bit sour this was umami, where the first was runny okay this was rather runny for a stew as well which made me happy because I Don't Like Stews.

This calls for boneless/skinless chicken thighs and because I'm cheap I bought some with both and removed it myself. I decided to cook them with the bone in and remove it prior to serving, which worked rather well if not slightly hot work. The bone will give a bit more chicken flavor (not that it really needed it) and after spending the day in the crock pot slipped easily off with a gentle nudge.

I'm not wild about the bacon, I feel the flavors are lost amongst the strong pull of the stout and after 8 hours in liquid what was once nice tasty bacon becomes impotent tasteless slop.

If you don't care for the taste of stout at all this is not the recipe for you, it isn't like drinking back a Guinness but it's pretty damn close.

And that's my tale of two soups, stews, whatever. Both have their good and bad sides but regardless they could both find purpose in my husband's stomach as he greedily gobbled them both up.

The Cake

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 14:23:00 +0000

January eighth has come and passed and dedicated blog followers/stalkers know this can only mean one thing: It is time for the big Husband's Birthday Cake reveal.

But we must begin this journey by taking a trip through the past, reveling in past and paster mistakes.

As some, or probably none of you know, each year on the most Holy of David Bowie days I attempt to make my husband a banana cake from scratch because you don't find a lot of boxed banana cakes. There's an entire gaping banana industry crying out for cake and brownie mixes and Big Baking refuses to collect the charges.

So sad.

Anyway, this madness, this odd tradition of my wallowing in incompetence began years ago with this cake:

Truly it is a modern expression in the play of black against blue then held down and forced to swallow yellow play-dough. Oh and then a few sprinkles for funsies. She is the cake we must never forget or it'll break into your house and steal your furniture.

This is such a bad cake it was put on the no fly list - twice.

The next year, despite all common sense I actually tried with piping bags and everything:

Adorable baby sea turtle sprinkles covers all shame. I wish I could explain the ectoplasm ringing the sides but I assume I had to fight a giant swedish portrait that was looking for babies and had to run.

Last year I went avant garde, post-modern, and other fancy sounding terms that means I meant for it to look like that and you can't prove I didn't.

Why is the cake a teal color? Who knows. Why does it seem to be constantly oozing over the side? Because I want it to. Why does it...? That's enough questions now Mr. Nosey, nosey pants.

And that brings us to this year. I went ambitious on the cake aspect and less so on the covering in frosting approximating something like decorations.

I broke from the typical banana cake mold (which I'd only spice up on occasion) to make one of Celebration Generation's Banana's Foster cake. I did a few things differently.

1. I added a banana back to the batter along with a bit of creme de banana for that super yellow fruit kick.

2. I completely forgot to add the pudding until I had the batter sitting in the pans waiting for the oven. This then lead to a lot of cursing, repouring into the bowl, remixing, repouring into the pans and a good 10 minutes into baking when I remembered "Oh shit, I didn't re-grease the pans."

So, naturally, the cake was less than forgiving about exiting from said pans and while one layer only had a crack here and there the other was condemned after an 8.9 earthquake crumbled its foundation.

The sides held in tact only through willpower and a heavy dose of duct tape while the middle bottomed out. Once it finished cooling over night I, with the help of an excavation team, moved that crumbling mess to the cake stand and swore it would never move again.

Then came the filling, that was done mostly the same, but due to structural problems (as within there was none) I didn't torte anything in favor of digging a bit into the cake and then dumping in all of the banana and brown sugar into the middle and sealing its banana tomb with the second cake.

Frosting, oh yes frosting. This was luckily my second attempt at making my own buttercream frosting, and despite the fact I own neither double boiler or stand mixer I manage to make some nice tasting spackle. Is it supposed to be that consistency? I have no idea but its edible and it clings to things, it's doing far better than most previous attempts.

Here she is, my husband's Birthday Banana's Foster Cake:

You'll note the dedication to piling all of the frosting on with a spoon and then swiping at it as a bear does intruding camera crews. A swipe here, a swipe there, eh I'm tired, let's go see what's at the dump.

Here are the guts of the cake, you'll note the single banana layer tucked away waiting patiently for the signal to kill.

As they always say the most important thing is what it tastes like but those people lie because none of you people will be eating it.

So come and laugh at my horrific decoration inabilities for, much like Halloween is for embracing the dead and March 18th is for Leprechauns to try AA again, today is the day I celebrate my awkward, one armed, half blind, totally deaf approach to frosting a cake.

Fresh painting for sale

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 13:22:00 +0000

After twiddling my thumbs for a bit, waiting for that perfect day to arrive, it amazingly did yesterday as temperatures in early January crested around 65.

Ha, suck it frozen losers.

Oh the point, right. Let me check quick, as here it is buried in my back. I took pictures of my paintings so now they're all listed for sale if anyone is interested in any of them.

I call this one Shattered Twilight - because I am bloody awful at this naming thing - and it's going for $40 painted on a 12X12.

This one is expertly called Blue Tree 12X24, because it's a tree on blue that's 12"X24" -- creative, no? It's going for $55.

The final one is colloquially known as Gloomy Forest but that didn't pop, didn't sing so I went with the more marketable Forbidden Forest, also on a 12X12 and also $40.

I made up some blathering about there being a secret or something but the biggest secret is probably how much I covered myself in black paint making it (I'll never tell).

It may be Etsy's "way" but sweet lord I hate coming up with stupid "stories" for my paintings. It's a painting, it was painted with some kind of paint. BUY IT!

This is why I'll never make it in marketing and will have to keep that clown washing job instead.

It Was A Homemade Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 15:19:00 +0000

I think enough time has past, presents have been opened and tolerated, that I can share with you what also kept me busy throughout December.

This year my husband and I wound up going with a lot of that most dreaded of gifts, the homemade look what I did with my own two little hands. It isn't that we're cheap (well okay, that's not true) it's simply that there seemed to be nothing but crap on top of more crap with some crap thrown in for texture.

Plus I wanted to see if I could help bring down the economy myself in preparation of the Mayan Apocalypse this year. It's a slow fall to 40 foot tall serpent gods devouring us whole.

My first attempt at a homemade gift was a coloring book, but not just any coloring book. This one I used photoshop to create inky color lines of the kids who would be coloring it.

Then I stuck it all in a binder for what was supposed to be easy access until the little bottom clip broke. Eh, tearing works as well.

For another I fell back on those much belabored and forgotten painting skills I will occasionally claim to have.

And for the last, for my mother, my husband with only a small bit of prodding on my part sculpted a lab sleeping (something her dog is a certified professional) which I then painted.

But it felt like he needed a little something so using some old scraps of fabric from the cave of dragon my husband made a little bed for the puppy:

Oh and I once again painted some of my Christmas cards (but didn't take pictures of them all because I have no idea why).

And that was my lazy ass Christmas giving.

New Year New Painting

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 13:43:00 +0000

This past week was an interesting one for me as my body decided to rebel against me leading to an entire night up wishing I could sleep, a rather hot shower to relax and then a very hard smash into the bathroom floor as I tried out that whole fainting thing.

It's a bit overrated.

I'm fine, no need to worry, I have this thing about overheating that never does good things for me.

I did get one hell of a monster bruise on my left hand, my main hand because I like being sinister, which means I've been sucking in air through gritted teeth anytime a small breeze bashes into it.

So I've been laying low this New Years etc etc, drinking lots of water and trying to get back into sleeping.

Oh and painting, it's a low impact sport that anyone in the family can enjoy.

This one was from a few weeks (months? years?) back but I just put it up to cover the grim reaper busting through the walls. There are a lot of paintings that hang up to hide Halloween decorations.

If you're gonna pass out aim for some padding, in not a bed, I suggest a living room over the tile in a bathroom.

The Wicked Cottage

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 18:46:00 +0000

After-Christmas, that most holy of time when traditionally septuagenarians bash each others skulls out to get a santa's head that's 75% off, my husband and I like to poke around the little town buildings to see if there's anything we can fix up.

A few years back we got a Vineyard that I turned into a Vampire Blood Bath for under $10.

This year, the town stuff was a little on the sparse side but my husband zeroed in on a cottage so quaint it made Garrison Keillor vomit up rainbows.

While it would work well for the old ladies that were working over the kidneys it was all wrong for our Halloween Town.

Not pictured are the trellis and dog I zapped with the heat gun before attempting to pull off which wound up with the dog's head snapping off.

Out came my black paint, the easiest way to spooky up anything, wetting the brush I added a layer of the runny, drippy darkness:

I impatiently let that dry before adding another coat of black, followed by rimming the various lines to make the windows and such pop. Oh and then killing the foliage.

Now that's a witches cottage!

For one final touch I gave the chickens red eyes because I'm sure if they had the option they'd prefer emu eyes.

And that's why I only use my powers for evil.

Keep the Pagan in Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 14:02:00 +0000

Due to my Ostrich lifestyle I managed to miss most if not all of the fabricated War against an impenetrable concept (which is rather sad as I had some lovely candy can missals all rigged up this year).

At least until braving the relatively empty stores two days after the holiday to find someone sporting a window decal with a silhouette nativity and the dreaded phrase "Keep Christ in Christmas."

So I felt the need to respond in kind, not so much to him but to the universe in general.

Oh I also made a painting yesterday, it was supposed to start out looking one way but I got mad waiting for paint to dry and the sky cracked a bit. This is why I should never have superpowers.

What do you mean you're out of caramel? I SHALL DESTROY YOU ALL!

Anyway, it's a tree with a shattered twilight background:

Paint? Why you no dry faster?

TerraFae - Preview

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 13:44:00 +0000

Greetings from the other side of Christmas! It's rather warm over here, surprisingly, with piles of papery debris that I swear move in the corner of your eye.

With the winter holiday behind me, this is my time to get started on some long term projects. There's the mage staff I've been eyeballing since early October, a scarecrow that would scare the piss out of all manner of murderous avian, and - oh yeah - that novel thing.

Well I have some sort of good news, I've given my larval stage tale a pass through so I feel confident in sharing the still young first three chapters for a preview.

TerraFae: Immortality is for the elves

  Branches yielded back to the tracker on the scent of new prey - a strange slide of leaves here, a broken blade of grass there told a story anyone literate in the hunting and stalking game could read.

      "I'm gettin hungry; it's been 'ours. Canna we take a break?"

      Or it would have if anyone had been bothering to crack open the cover.

      Cas, just Cas - try and call her Cassandra and look forward to a few years of soup dinners - was fielding off a mass of mosquitos with one hand and a giant with low blood sugar on the other. She was what some with stars in their eyes would call an adventurer.

      Those that are more grounded and refrain from wearing funny hats would merely spit on the ground and grumble about being a public nuisance after checking to make sure none were around. It was a job like most others, the hours were lousy (most monsters only seemed to like a good killing around dawn or dusk), you were always on the road (though most in the profession considered that a perk) and there was a good chance you could learn what color your insides were. But the pay was good (if you could get it out of a farmer's grubby mitt), you got to work out your aggressions and occasionally meet some very interesting people before stabbing them in tender areas.

      Like the giant sliding down onto the ground next to her. Well not an actual giant, a nickname he picked up at one of the many taverns named after various beasts heads that the owner purchased from one of those Inn Decor Catalogs. All adventurer's need a good nickname to carry their heroic deeds through towns and spin the tales until it's unrecognizable to anyone with a few braincells to their name. The fact that Cas managed to shake off all that people tried to pin to her spoke volumes to her fellow peers and kept the physicians in coin when a rather foul mouthed drunkard had an alliterative moment with her name that traveled far faster than any winged horse.

      "We can eat later, back at the inn. This shouldn't be a long job," Cas shifted her weight, staring into the eyes of probably the closest friend she ever had. It took about three hours of stumbling into each other on the first job to decide that Cas was in charge, the fact that he had a good two feet and ten stone on her didn't matter much. If anything it helped cement the idea of Humphrey the Giant of Ganosha as the big ol' cuddly bear in town and Cas the kind of customer innkeepers woke shaking and screaming about. They never had the chance to realize that while Cas was glaring at them raking their soul across the underlair's coals, the giant's easy smile managed to swindle them down to a few coins for a room a night with board.

      Humphrey smiled lopsidedly at her, trying on his best 'stupid puppy' face that tended to get him all the drink he wanted and all the girls he didn't but there was no budging Cas the I Can't Believe She's Standing Behind Me. The summer heat was pressing in hard on the bit of forest left to thrive in between hilled farmland, this was supposed to be a get in and get out fast mission but as usual the client chose to leave out the rather pertinent information that would have cost him a few more coins.

      "Gods, I hate these little buggers. Next thin' ya know they'll be poppin' up in towns smashing windows and chasing skirts," one of many expertly stashed flasks appeared in Hum's hands, a belt to get him through lunch and another for dinner too. Cas narrowed her eyes, it'd been getting worse lately.

      "Didn't you see all those little plots of land in town? They've already gotten in," she sneered a bit, her early days as a farm girl and her hatred of useless flower patches slipping through.

      "Oh yeah," Hum giggled, "with the pointy hats and funny little wossa. You know the pants but with the strappy things to . . ." He tried to mimic suspenders but at Cas's stone face stopped and smiled wide again. If it didn't turn blades or arrows Cas's knowledge of fashion could fit inside an imp skull.

      Hum shrugged and picked up his sword, a giant two handed steel he liked to slug around with his humongous right hand just to watch the little pissants turn white. It was almost bollocks at any actual fighting as it couldn't keep an edge and was next to impossible to get a full swing of. He wasn't entirely certain why he brought it with for this job - it seemed a good idea back in the cool dark inn. Out under the burning sun Hum came to really regret the unspoken rule that a Barbarian never learn what a razor was for. He couldn't help his unruly genes for height and hair production.

      Cas sighed, as she was wont to do when on a mission with Hum anymore. He'd been steady as a rock back in their early days traveling through the countryside answering whatever missions the Court Approved Slayers wouldn't touch with their 10 foot halberds. Lately, though, he seemed to view everything as a joke, slipping off to quaff with the locals at the inn instead of trailing her as she staked out the terrain or gods help her sneaking off with one of the locals to a quieter place for some alone time leading to a lot of early morning running generally before they got paid. It was getting on the only nerve Cas had.

      "Whatever they keep in town are barely gnomes anymore. It isn't a gnome if it doesn't nick off a few sheep when everyone's asleep." How quickly they forget in their cozy towns the dangers out on the road, the trolls under the forgotten bridges, the harpies nesting in the trees, the Ogres crunching deep in caves, and even the forest gnomes roaming from farm to farm decimating an entire crop in under a week. Now they were cute little rosy cheeked grandfathers in funny clothes that, gods she didn't know, offered advice or watched over the front door or licked frogs. To Cas, anyone who lived in town had about as much intellect and common sense as a new born kitten with a penchant for taunting the dog.

      Now one of the more nefarious bands of roaming forest gnomes had gotten a bit too close to the local Baron's fields and suddenly they were a big problem and needed to be eradicated as soon as possible. Tacked to one of the big sanctorium boards flapped a call to rid the town of Clump of a few gnomes and off Cas and Hum rode visions of an easy breakfast in their heads.

      That was 6 hours, a missed meal, and about 4 gallons of sweat ago. Now the two were seriously considering abandoning the few bits and leaving the little camouflaged twerps for some other hapless soul trying to break into the business. Cas unsheathed her small dagger and rolled it in her fingers as she settled next to Hum, for the first time letting on to the fatigue the quickly rising temps gouged from her. The giant laughed to himself watching her change, she always had to be in control especially when no one was watching or cared. He passed her the flask, and while she'd usually demure for fear of what that rotgut would leave her with in the morning the temptation of any bit of moisture overrode her common sense.

      The silver flask glinted in the elevening sun catching the eye of a small creature hiding carefully in the leaves below. Anything shiny spoke to one of the three compartments in its brain (Eat, Mate, Steal) and, despite the large possible threats above, unearthed itself. The two humans paused, the rustling catching them both (even exhausted from a long ride and heat some instincts couldn't be ignored), sharp bits got ready.

      A forest gnome looked more like a small fox without all the fur. The skin was a mottled mix of greens and browns the better to vanish into the underbrush with and while they would, on occasion, steal clothing no gnome ever thought once to slide on a pair of oversized trousers and belt a tunic. When faced with a garden gnome a roaming forest gnome wouldn't think it had found a long lost cousin, it would probably test it cautiously to see if it was alive and then nick it when no one was looking.

      Hum smiled at the lone little guy, "Come for a bit of what ails have ya?" he asked, tipping the flask towards the gnome that crept closer on all fours, its sharp nails digging deep into the ground. Cas watched it curiously, she'd never observed one in their wild habitat. Anyone worth their salt would either attack the horde as they were in the middle of their raids or more smartly leave a few poisoned sheep out for them and let the problem take care of itself while waiting in some place cool. Then why in the hell are we out here?

      The gnome, still watching the two humans with its gigantic eyes carefully balanced up onto its back legs. It looked almost comical, like a dog doing a trick for a treat. How quickly humans forget that wild creatures remain alive by relying upon a balance of cute and danger. Hum leaned forward again, the gnome stood his ground its eyes on that shiny object. "Whatcha think?" he asked it.

      In the blink of an eye the gnome told him exactly what he thought of it, slicing Hum's finger and snatching up the flask that fell from the giant's fist before diving back towards the leaves. "HEY!" the giant yelled, all entertainment replaced by pure rage, "THAT'S MINE!"

      Gnomes are notorious for being faster than the human eye but there was no animal, bird or quantum particle faster than a Berserker who just had his flask stolen. He flopped forward, catching the back legs of the gnome, its nails slicing up his fist but there was no way the giant was letting go. "GIVE IT BACK!"

      Cas had just enough time to draw her sword when the gnome, realizing its predicament, relied upon the only other defense it had and opened its mouth to an eardrum shattering squeal - it called the horde. The ground erupted in a mass flash of leaves and dirt as gnomes hidden in their underground lairs burst through and, not needing long to asses the situation, jumped on the only non-gnome thing in the vicinity. Teeth and nail met leather, steel, and flesh and the two found themselves in an unexpected fight for their lives.

      Chapter 2

      The take had been abysmal for a goblin free town out in bums all nowhere. Max shifted his poorly worded "Well Werk Think aBout Werk 4 Booze" wooden sign off his lap as he tossed the last crumbs of his lunch to his feared griffin that was losing most of its feathers due to a bad case of mange and water soluble glue.

      He was sweating through the required ten layers of rags he'd swiped from Good Ganoshans over the years and contemplated giving up the whole thing in favor of a cold pint in a dark pub/inn/egg farm. This whole begging thing was best left to the birds.

      Shading his eyes, he squinted across the undulating (or was it unguent? ungallant?) hills dotted with cow shit and spied a pair of shadows limping across the horizon, actually heading toward this blight of a town.

      Grinning, he whistled for his dog, er griffin, and dug himself deeper into his staked out prime hole spot. His sign was a shining beacon to any easy marks who wandered loose out of their homes. As he rubbed some dirt and leftover sandwich bits onto his face, a pair of voices - far more animated than the typical drab pilgrim - echoed through the hills.

      "We got by just fine, see."

      The silence from the other shadow a few steps in front was palpable even from this distance. Max shifted a bit.

      "Nun died or got aten or anythin' like that. Yep. Is all good."

      The griffin whined and hid its nose in the convenient piles of rags that could become a tent if the homeless gig wasn't working so well.

      "So we jus' collect the coin and whoop shoop off to the bar to get so knock kneed we forget about the day." Whoop shoop? This could be easier than he'd thought.

      The front shadow paused, rigid as those corsets the women at spring salons wear until one of them passes out - it was a popular betting game for the young men. "I never want to see you again," the cold voice rang crystal clear throughout the hills the timbre surprising the beggar that it was a woman taking the lead. It was the kind of voice that cut to every man's quick, a reminder that your life is in the hands of the supposed weaker-sex who could, with a single flick of her finger, rip it right out from beneath you. The fact that so many don't has always unnerved him.

      She continued on with long hard strides, her form becoming more visible in this blinding sun. Max tipped his hat down, afraid that making eye contact with the woman could shrivel some parts he was rather attached to.

      "Ha, 's what you always say. Hum, I ne'er wanna see you 'gain. Hum, what'd I tell yas about that drinkin'. If'n I see you ass o'er end with the entire Baron's accounting staff again I'll run my sword right through ye."

      Hard boots crunched on the broken path dried from the hard summer days and churned from passing merchant wagon wheels. The kind of footwear that those who are not big fans of being bothered tended to wear Max thought to himself. Still, worth the risk.

      Putting on his patented (the guild took these things very seriously) "down on his last leprechaun" face Maxamillion the Fifth, son of the Earl of Del Riata cried out, "Alms for the poor." He tipped his hat back slowly and looked up at the oddest pair he'd encountered in his short life of robbing from the poor to entertain himself.

      A pair of cold blue eyes greeted his, the woman maintained an air of eternal insolence despite the fact her leathers were shredded with tiny holes as if someone had gone mad with a stapler. Blonde locks wisped about her face, freed from what looked to be the most lock tight hair plaits this side of Ostro. She walked steady but couldn't hide the slight limp giving way to a greater injury he could exploit. The Earl's son tightened his grip on a dagger bejeweled stupidly with rubies.

      Then the man who apparently spent all his time drinking and hanging out with accountants bumped into Max's view and cracked a smile haunted with spirits, "Come on Cassie, just one more before hittin' the road."

      Glittering snake eyes turned back onto the giant beside her, giving Max the perfect opportunity to create a lucrative hostage situation. He rose rather rapidly for a man who liked to tell people he lost his legs in an Ogre accident and grabbed the woman's shoulder, his blade coming dangerously close to her throat. If it all went by the book she'd turn into a quivering lump in his armed hands, the giant would pass over his purse and they'd be off into town to complain to the guards who owed Max's father a good bull.

      But he really shouldn't have skipped over Intro to Choosing Your Victim 101: Don't go for the one that's armed. Without a moment's pause, Cas's hand grabbed the wrist of the dagger and while pushing it down dug her shoulder into Max's stomach, knocking the wind out of him and in one quick move tossed him ass first onto the ground. The dagger clattered uselessly out of his grasp as her sturdy boot came down on his rather handsome face.

      Not once did she bother looking at her assailant, all her fury still burning for her best friend, "I'm packing my things tonight and leaving. I never want to see you again. And I mean it." Putting her weight down on Max's face one last time she turned and stomped hard into the town.

      The giant called out, still unsteady, "So tha's it eh? The great hero's gonna save the worl' all by her lonesome? Fine! More drinkin' for me!"

      For the first time anyone in the rather poorly chosen ambush party turned and regarded Max. A foot of bedraggled black beard dipped dangerously close to his nose that was welling up with blood. "If I was you boy, I'd find summin' else to take up your time. Pheasant riding or Horse Hunting. You dunna got it in you."

      And much like his former partner the Giant toddled from one side to the next into the town, stopping only briefly to pet Griffin on the head.


      ***

      It wasn't supposed to be like this. His wife had dreams of a cozy little place just on the outskirts of town where weary travelers could stop for a bite on their way to the Shrine of Malcolt the Penitent (who really regretted eating the cakes sent one holiday morn from his mortal rival) or young families would spend warm autumn days sampling the famous array of jams and jellies and other things that could be stuck inside a jar and peddled to city folk who wandered into the country to rub elbows with rubes.

      Burdened by huge dreams, the young couple bought up the aging "Dragon's Breath" pub and with a lot of elbow and farfalle grease, a couple coats of lavender paint and charming window trellises opened up the Inn of the Dancing Unicorn.

      But buildings occasionally have a strange way of never going according to plan. The paint peeled instantly, leaving the rusted black mottle poking from beneath, only thistles, poison ivy and ragweed grew in the quaint garden and the charming wicker furniture spontaneously caught on fire. Despite every attempt to reclaim the Inn, the Dragon's Breath roared back. Much like people there are some places that, no matter how much you change the outer draping's or spruce up the floor boards, are still rotten to the core.

      The bartender was starting to come to terms with the decor that looked like a dilapidated house first threw up ad then exploded all over the walls along with the dragon symbol etched hastily on the back wall that appeared each night no matter what he covered it with; but given the current clientele  he'd have preferred his Inn not have any customers at all.

      Instead of adorable families teaching their children good table manners and why you should always tip your hostess well and elderly pilgrims smiling beatifically as they blessed the evening meal the "Dancing Dragon" attracted all manner of scum across Arda. It was close enough to Mageton without being near enough to attract any authorities attention and had easy water access to the Isentic sea in case any unexpected escapes were necessary. The perfect place for any cutthroat, vagrant, layabout, cheating swine and anyone else that refused to pay the full twenty bits for a pint that gave the bartender fits at night.

      He didn't even look up when a cowled individual entered the Dragon and bumped around a few of the chairs carved from the wood of some haunted and maniacal tree most likely. Half of the patrons were fully shrouded in black velvet (or linen for the unprepared scoundrel), hunched over a beer at their own table each trying to keep their back to a wall. It got so bad there was a "Keep a Cloak, Take a Cloak" box near the door.

      The newest doomed soul bumped into the back of Klaus the most wanted criminal in Pateo Plains for breaking into the homes of good little girls and boys and eating a few cookies before leaving his trademark calling card of a few lumps of old rocks on the mantle and vanishing into the night. Normally he'd tear anyone that dared touch him limb from limb, humming a few refrains of Joy To Arda, but as the stranger apologized he got a good look at that cloaked face and decided he'd had enough eggnog for one night.

      "What'll it be?" the barkeep tried to spit for decorum's sake but unable to be so rude coughed into his fist instead.

      The cowl paused, looking left and right which mostly caused his hood to flop even harder over his eyes, then reached inside its robes and pulled out a small book bound in what was probably human skin knowing the usual patron. "I am to be wanting a man." The voice was melodious and high pitched, like those boys that sing in the Sanctorium choir and never get to father any children.

      "Sorry, don't have any in stock," the bartender chortled trying his best to polish the fresh glassware that within seconds of crossing the threshold became crusted with impenetrable dirt.

      Pages in the book flipped madly as the specter hunted for a response, "You are to be knowing where the sandwich is?"

      "If you're hungry you'll have to wait 'til morning. Me wife does all the fixins," the bartender said before realizing he couldn't remember when he last saw her. Last he heard she was heading down to the basement to scrub off some old drawings on the floor.

      The cowl sighed loudly and clicked its tongue, "Nage, nage. My hovercraft is full of eels."

      "I see. Sounds like a personal problem there."

      Just then one of the immovable lumps at the bar who arrived mid-afternoon and hadn't moved since rolled over towards the newcomer and slapped him hard on the back. He tried to make a thumbs up at the bartender but finding coordination hard to grasp waved instead, "Someone get this guy a lute, he could play the Avar's. A pint for me and my friend here."

      The bartender sighed, and called over one of the locals he hired to run the taps. "I'm headin' downstairs to see what's up with Nora, you guard the still from the Barbarian. And don' let him anywhere near the stage."

      Hum perked up considerably at the comely newcomer and tried to dig his fingers through the brambles he kept on his face to shape them into some presentable manner. It had been a few hours since Cas deposited him at the stool, stomped upstairs to collect her kit and vanished into the night (or was it day? What day was it again? Oh right, drinking day). But she'd be back, she always came back.

      Something approaching a conscious tried to fight through the beer to tug on Hum's ear warning him that in all the years they'd fought together, all the times he'd pissed her off or all the times she'd caught him completely pissed he'd never seen her this mad. Bah, another drink would quiet that voice down. After that gnome job he had enough coin to keep the good stuff - well the palatable stuff - flowing. And nothing helped one to forget the sight of thousands of tiny teeth ripping into your flesh like a tub full of ale.

      He thumped his new friend hard on the back and waggled his eyebrows at the new tap runner for two more pints. It took a few minutes for the nerves to register that his hand was in quite a bit of pain after slapping the tiny thing hidden beneath the cowl. Eh, must have armor on under that. Hum wasn't one to go prying into people's personal lives, unless they really wanted him to.

      "So lil thing, wha' brings ya to the middle of nowhere?"

      The cowl slowly slid its hood back, revealing a tiny pink nose shaped like a triangle that lead to an even smaller mouth with nearly no lips. Almost no chin would typically guarantee one to a life in government but the large haunting purple eyes so almond shaped they put some nuts to shame marked the creature for what it was.

      "Has anyone 'er told you you're the spittin' image o' an elf?" Hum slurred passing one pint to the tiny thing before downing his in one long gulp and wagging what he thought were his eyebrows at the new barkeep for another who giggled in return. It was the slow smile, got 'em every time he thought. Maybe today was looking up.

      The cowl shook his head, dropping a finger into the mug and placing a small drop of liquid in his mouth before puckering his lips and returning the pint to the bar. "I am to be looking for someone."

      "Tha's what I keep hearin.' Anyone in particular or just lookin' for a random shag?"

      Confused, the cowl flipped through his little book but was unable to come up with any entries under "shag." He hoped that the large human did not wish to shave him. Searching for another word he settled on a phrase one was to yell in an emergency, "I need an hero."

      Hum snorted mid-belt, sending beer sloshing through his already damp beard. Hazy memories of his last fight bubbled up as Cas, frigid as usual, threw his share of the coins at his rather voluminous head, "Here's your cut. Try not to get yourself killed with it."

      She turned, ready to storm out in a rather dramatic huff for her when Hum's already libated voice croaked out, "Oh yes, Ma'am. You just toddle off and save the world all on yer own while I sit here drinking meself to death. Canna trust that ol' Hum, he'll just muck it all up. The great hero everyone."

      Cas paused, even more anger boiling over in her already steaming pot but instead of releasing it in the dank pub surrounded by gods knew what she stormed off into the cooling evening. And good riddance too, thought Hum, like he needed a babysitter to wipe his chin and tell him when to go to bed or who to go to bed with. He was a grown man, looking at him he could be two grown men, and if he wanted to drink himself to death so be it.

      Smiling rather cruelly he turned to his new best friend and said, "If it's a hero ya be lookin' for I 'appen to know the greatest one of all is stayin' right here in town."

      Wide eyes got even larger as the small head bobbed excited at the news, "Where do I be finding this one?"

      Hum cackled, something a bit unbecoming in a Barbarian, but he was allowed his moment, "Jus' look for the ice cold bitch cursing a blue streak that would make a Duneclaw pirate blush."

      ***

      For the fifth time, Cas checked the saddle on her Rent-A-Horse named unsuitably Daisy. She was going to have to change transportation before getting into a decent adventuring town, any nail chewing wander who chops up monsters for coin would have a field day finding her with a horse named after a flower. And she had enough problems already.

      Sighing, she twisted her two foot long brain around her hands. Why did this happen so bloody often? She met the Giant of Ganosha in the middle of a harpies nest, the only two sent on that ill begotten mission who could actually complete it without getting flayed alive and they'd been near inseparable ever since.

      Sure, his tendency to default to the biggest kid in the room when faced with anything approaching authority and the fact he could easily be turned by a full mug or a handsome face drove her up the wall and into the attic. And - she hated to admit to herself - the fact she tended to dictate every aspect of Hum's life up to and including when to take a piss got under his skin. But despite their earned reputation they still needed each other, not so much to watch the others back when in the field. It was fending off their peers in taverns late at night that proved the greatest fight of all.

      The skirt and the bitch, that was what they called them in those early days. A few broken noses, smashed collar bones and one ranger put through the frame for the Elk's Head had earned them enough of a reprieve for one night but it never lasted. Another town another bunch of cave dwelling moss lickers who had to out piss each other at every turn lest someone younger and better equipped steal their coin.

      And Hum would be there to smash in anyone who got too close to her just as she'd have an escape route planned and already be half dressed before she heard the screams of a local finding her husband entangled with the burly Barbarian.

      Lately they were fightin' worse than a married couple and the fact that he knew she still needed him pissed her off even more. Sighing again, Cas pulled her pack off, shudder, Daisy and started to wipe the horse down. Maybe a night in the barn would help to cool heads or at least keep her from chopping off one she'd regret.

      A shadow entered the barn, cloaked fully and standing rod straight. Her eyes shifted slowly to where her weapons sat a few feet out of reach. Grapnar's Beard! Just what she needed now, more assassins. Couldn't they try a different color scheme just once, maybe something bright and cheery. You'd never expect a knife in the back from someone wearing a bright yellow tunic or sun dress.

      But the shadow stood still, seeming to wait for something as its cloak turned quickly like a bird near a seed factory. Trying to maintain her composure, Cas slowly brushed the horse weighing it in her hand, "Well? Are ya gonna kill me or aren't ya?"

      "I am to be sorry. You do not appear to be streaking blue."

      "Excuse me?!" She'd expected a lot - flying daggers, crashing chandeliers, those weird star shaped knives everyone knew didn't work worth a crap but thought looked cool - but not that. Turning, she watched as the shadowy figure extricated itself from a far too abundant amount of cloak.

      Billowy yards of fabric gave way to a skinny frame, barely thicker than a dagger, the size one would expect to find on someone who was just figuring out what all those fun hormones were for. It was wearing some very complicated night gown covered in intricate scrolling embroidered in what shimmered like gold in the rolling lamplight. Then it slowly looked up from its hands, finishing the last bit of folding of the cloak.

      Cas gasped, "A 'line?"

      The man blinked rapidly, his haunting eyes looking even more dangerous in the low light. Her hands itched for a blade, something anything other than the 2 ounce brush. His tiny mouth thinned even further and turned down as he cocked his head, watching.

      There were tales spun, normally when people grew tired of the usual about who the Baron or the Baron's wife was screwing in town, of the old wars with the 'lines. But it was so ancient most assumed they were more myth than truth, only a few ruins and of course the Stone of Scarra remained as reminders of an era humans were so quick to forget.

      Only a few would dare talk of seeing an actual 'line, saying a band was spotted out at sea or gathering something on the coasts before returning to their exile on Terrafae. Then there were the more touched people who claimed a 'line or two would come to their bed and well that was a tale told when the kids were supposed to be upstairs asleep.

      "I am to be looking for a cold female dog," he cocked his head again and reached his hands open in either a "see I'm not armed" or "please stab me" motion.

      Funny, the tales never mentioned them being this dumb, "I see you were talking to my partner, ex-partner. Yes, that's me the…cold dog. What do you want?"

      The elf smiled, a strange sight to see as the eyes held all of the warmth while the tiny mouth only moved a little. "I to be needing a hero. You be this hero."

      "Look, I don't work on spec. I'm gonna need to see some coin up front before I even entertain this job," Cas's brain went straight into negotiation mode. More than a few accounts had run screaming at the sight of the short blonde woman bearing down upon them, abacus in hand.

      The purple eyes lowered for a moment, "Ah, do do," he reached into the folds of his nightgown and extracted a handfull of coins the size of quid that glinted gold in the lamplight. "Take, yes," he held his long clawed hands out to Cas.

      She fought back the urge to tremble at the elf's touch and picked a coin out of his palm. Before she could pull her hand away the rest of the pile vanished into his folds, quicker than eye could follow. Despite the fact gold dipped lead would be worth more than what she normally gets for a job she still bit down on the coin for show. No one knew what a pure gold coin would actually do when chomped, it was just something you did when given one.

      "And what does this job entail, exactly?" Cas asked cautiously. She'd been expecting a pile of berries and twigs, hoping that this was one of those fabled half elves one heard about every now and then wandering through towns in search of work. It was slowly dawning on her that this could be the real thing.

      The elf blinked again slowly, batting at its shaggy umber hair uncertain of how to proceed. It had seemed so simple in the books, give the human one gold coin, promise more and then they would take the contract. There had been no talk of accepting poisoned beverages or talking excessively in rather noxious farm holds with large animals that released a large amount of methane. With horror he started to wonder if humans made the same smells as their beasts of burden.

      Cas crossed her arms slowly, gripping the coin tightly and dropping it into one of her vest pockets, "I'm not about to take on any work if you won't tell me what it is. So unless you wanna start talking I don't have any babies you can change or odd jobs you can perform for a saucer of milk so you may as well head back to wherever you came from." She rocked back slowly on her heels trying to increase her height over the elf. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to spend a night under the same roof as Hum after all. Assuming he hasn't already found another bed.

      Long fingers scratched behind the pointy ears hiding them momentarily behind tufts of hair. The elf seemed to be debating something. Just wait it out and he'll go find some other helpless sap and you won't get your shoulder snapped off, Cas thought to herself.

      Looking once more, he shrugged his scrawny shoulder and murmured, "Edifara."

      Cas started to turn back to Daisy, glad that was settled when a blur from the corner of her eye was all the warning her brain got before total darkness.

      Chapter 3

      Her soft shoes echoed no sound as she padded across the marble halls of her Mistress' section of the palace. Normally she'd have waited until the sun set, obscuring her approach in the waning lamplight but the summons couldn't have been more urgent had it been fitted with large exclamation points in the royal seal.

      One of the larger guards decorated with the red sash denoting why he was surgically perfect for this job looked down at her, glaring at what he knew was hidden beneath the veils. She bit back the urge to recess to her younger days of shielding her head with her small hands whenever roving bands of urchins found her hiding in one of the forgotten bits of rubble in the street. Reaching into her training she summoned the persona of a noble annoyed with the fly buzzing under her nose.

      Her oversized eyes met his, a daring challenge that only those intimate to the Lady could accomplish without their head rolling across the marble floors staining the holy stones and passed to him the message with the seal of the Sultana.

      His rough hand snatched the paper away and impenetrable eyes scanned it for any proof that he could order this wench hauled off to the prisons for a bit of fun. Ugh, they smelled even worse than usual. She pulled her sleeve closer inhaling an intoxicating blend of frankincense and dragon's blood, the only bkhur she found that combated the overpowering scent of men.

      Grunting once from a lack of finding anything to change up his standing in one place all day trying to not fall asleep the guard moved the curtain aside and let her pass into the heart of Duneclaw. She bobbed, never curtsey to the help her Mistress stressed, and walked under arms thick enough to make some trees feel inadequate.

      Without a pause, she slipped her foot coverings off and walked slowly into the golden light of Ayasofya. Servants - all female - bustled from one marble altar to the other each dedicated soul and body in service of the frail, ancient divine perched upon the cushioned throne at the far end of the hall.

      Marble columns encircled in banners decorated with green damask patterns would offer a far preferable vantage point for her to historically wait quietly for a moment alone with her Mistress. This was the first time she'd even been officially summoned and the knots were tightening ever harder in her bird-like stomach.

      Spilled around the Sultana's feet on cushions that designated their importance sat some of the more senior of her fellow Kira, each unveiled for the rare moments when they need not worry of reprisal or discovery. Their laughter reverberated across the giant domes tinkling against the flaring sconces all the way up to the focal fresco of her mother's adopted Messiah.

      She paused again, unused to this much light. Her physical characteristics that set her apart from the others made night time work more preferable (as well as the lack of people inserting themselves in her way). By the mid-day sun this palace radiated a glaring warmth that she'd never felt when accepting assignments at night in the cool shroud of the endless sleep.

      The other Kira continued to ignore her, a fact she was used to. But the woman perched at the top of the throne, her round nose buried in a thick book decorated in beautiful scrolling smiled serenely as if she could look directly through the thick tome worn from love.

      "Step forward, my child," the soft voice was almost grandmotherly in its warmth, a fact the Sultana used to her advantage, "you're so much quieter than the others, I barely heard you enter."

      Shielding off the evil eye from the others, she walked closer to her mistress and dropped down onto her knees bowing so low some of her curly dark hair freed itself from her veil. It had been a near century and she still had yet to learn how to bend each piece of hair to her will. "I live only to please you, Mistress."

      The Sultana smiled again, a far sweeter one than her fellow Kira had seen in some time. Her Mistress caressed her head and murmured, "My, Sevda." The years spent out in the field fell away and old eyes met perpetual young ones, "arise, we have much to discuss."

      Trying to not tear her silk gown overlay on the way up she rose carefully, all eyes on the woman who gave her a reason for living. "I received your summons as I was in the midst of the Serpent's tongue. I fear that my departure may have alerted them." For the first time since her heart soared at discovering the letter tucked away in one of the drop off points she wondered if she may have committed a fool's errand at dropping everything to race to the palace.

      But the Sultana waved a hand, "They are but mere flies, buzzing away at the cow's backside. Soon enough they shall receive a good swat but it need not come at my hand. No, you are required for a mission tailor made for your . . . skills."

      "As you command, my Lady," the servants were vanishing quickly, as they always did whenever she talked privately to her mistress. But it wasn't private anymore, they were speaking familiarities in the open surrounded by those who could change her lot in life. The true power behind the publicly abstruse throne.

      "Come," the Sultana waved her closer, and she perched herself just below her on the cushion symbolically left vacant for the Mother of the Son. Anyone else would have been violently lashed both verbally then physically but the Sultana merely placed a well cultivated hand under her chin and sighed.

      The years may have slowly poisoned away her mistress' vibrance and beauty but underneath the multiplying wrinkles and softening flesh still glowed those same bronze eyes and bright heart that had so easily captivated her as a girl. And there was that heart lifting scent; while most others in the land sent her scurrying for a perfume bottle, the Sultana always smelled of a fresh rose garden in the late summer sun.

      "Sevda, what have you heard of the raids?"

      She shuddered a bit, she never liked to discuss that side of her life with anyone, not even her mistress, "Nothing, my Lady. It seems there have been almost no new ships from TerraFae in months."

      The Sultana smiled, as one would when her dog performs a rather complicated trick, "Exactly, this has me concerned."

      "Why? Is it not better that our lands are free of that scourge. Let them spread their poison elsewhere."

      "Oh, my dear," she patted her head again, her heart wistful for a time when she could meet in secret with her favorite Kira whenever she wished. But those years were long behind her, no matter how little her Sevda changed, "when the starving wolves stop clawing at your door you hope it is due to the feathered lady claiming their souls but prepare for the brother bear to replace them."

      The Sultana stretched a hand out to one of the other girls seated below and received another letter, "This is a message that has been relayed across a few of our lesser upright meyhane's, spoken in secret, a search for a warrior of renowned skill." She passed the note to her charge, it was written mostly in old Elvish, a language she'd fought hard for years to not learn before her mistress taught her that its better to know the lay of an enemies heart than be a stranger when it is time to strike.

      "I see. Have they ever searched for a human before?" the word clung to her tongue, she hated using it as it always othered her but there wasn't a better one.

      She shook her head, her white sand hair long since parted with the ebony of youth loosening from her top bun and falling over her veil. It had been ages since she'd last seen her mistresses hair and it pained her to find that in the time she'd been gone all the color was leeched away by Brother Time. "That is what concerns me. Aside from chattel they have no use for gathering humans and prefer the more amenable sort. I need you to take on this mission."

      She smiled, a plan already forming in her head, "Of course, I shall call in my usual contacts and gather as much information as possible. Within a month I am certain I can lay a trap for the Kedi's."

      Her never ending exuberance always delighted and surprised the Sultana, how the heavy fall of years never crushed it she'd never know, "My dear Sevda, you shall meet up with their most obvious choice of champion - a rather brutish sort they pulled in from the northern lands - and travel as his servant to the land of the Kedi."

      The smile strained as she tried to hold it fixed in place but screamed in her head; everything her mother taught her - those nights up late crying about the horrors of that cursed island - lapped hard against the warm smile of the only other person to ever love her. How could she travel to that land knowing what fate could await her?

      Sensing her distress the Sultana sweetened the pot one last time, "And if you return with knowledge to help us finally stop these Kedi raids once and for all you shall be given your long deserved reward of a place in my court."

      Despite trying to act as though they weren't listening to their Lady's private conversation the other women gasped at the idea of a dirty half-blood being seen in the streets with them, breaking bread with them or even bathing near them.

      Ignoring the outburst below, her eyes welled with tears at the prospect of an acceptance she'd never dreamed possible, "My Lady, I thank you."

      The Sultana turned her mouth up but it never quite became a smile, she knew that this would be the last she'd see of her favorite. The crows were already circling in her dreams, "All of the information you need is in the scroll. May the Son travel with you, my Sevda."

      Bowing deeply and pressing her nose to the marble floor she kissed her Lady's hand once more and walked silently out of the chamber.

      The Sultana counted to ten nehirs before calling out, "And don't forget your shoes."

      ***

      I'm gonna kill the elf.

      The thought reverberated around her skull as consciousness fought against oblivion, rocking back and forth against rough wooden planks. Her hands pushed hard into a poorly finished floor, rough wood scraping back, as she raised her body up. Cas tried to steady her head but the floor rocked away from her and she fought back the little bit of breakfast she'd managed to keep in her stomach.

      Dim light tossed from a single small lantern was all that she had to go off in this prison made mostly of a small bed built into the side and a table bolted to the floor. As another spell of whatever the elf used on her struck. She stumbled a bit and knocked her boot into a chest. Having not much else to go on she was surprised to find the thing unlocked and barely bolted closed.

      Slightly numb hands brushed across all too familiar metal and wooden boxes, scabbards and bolts of cloth. Did that elf really lock her up with her bloody kit? A small part of her feared a trap but unless they would go to all the trouble of locking up someone only to have her kill herself upon a poisoned belt buckle it seemed unlikely. What in Farfer's Big Toenail was going on?

      Well, the best way to find out was well armed. Setting the lamp down carefully she effortlessly slipped into her well worn leathers and buckled on her scabbard. Her backup shield seemed to be missing, but that wasn't a big loss. She never liked the thing anyway, it was always splitting at the most inopportune "being bared down upon by a rather unhappy recently awoken Troll with an arrow wedged in its foot" times. Never short change your blacksmith, they never forget it.

      Standing up carefully in the tight space, Cas checked herself. Hum would have been half bent over and grumbling the whole time if he'd been here. A twinge of both relief and guilt struck her. Would he even know she'd been taken? Would he even care? She shook those thoughts off, he wasn't her warrior prince come to rescue her from a tall tower, and she could certainly save herself with the right number of sharp pointy things.

      Now, extricating a lock-pick set out of her bag, she picked up the lamp and got to work on her jail cell. She focused the lantern at the door knob three times but still couldn't believe her luck, there was no lock, not even a place for a keyhole. It was just the knob. These elves sure made for horrible jailers.

      Onward and upward, maybe her luck would continue and they wouldn't think to post guards either. Cautiously turning the handle wrapped in her tunic to muffle the creak she opened the door a crack and tried to look down either side of an almost nonexistent hallway. So far so good. Taking a deep breath she blew out the lantern and ducking down rolled out of her cell into the uninhabited emptiness of eventual freedom.

      She flattened against the wall, waiting for someone to come running at the sound of a prisoner calmly walking out of an unlocked room but still nothing. Where for the god's sake was everyone? Despite the lack of an unfriendly reception Cas was uneasy (as if anyone breaking out of prison ever felt at ease) and drew her dagger, there was know way she could get a proper swing with her longsword down here.

      Inching towards the light, she made her way towards what looked like a small staircase having to stop every time her head rolled from that cursed poison that lurched her stomach along for company. The only natural light seemed to be filtering down from a hatch at the top of the stairs. Keeping their dungeon in the basement was the first bit of sense these kidnapping elves seemed to employ. Not too many people hold their prisoners on the ground floor anymore. It's so inconsiderate for those trying to escape.

      Slipping the dagger into her teeth and slicing up her lip, she worked the flimsy latch on the hatch as a bit of blood pooled around the blade and carefully popped the hatch open only an inch. Holding her breath, waiting for a scream of "Over there!" she counted to ten and inched the hatch ever higher until she could peer out. Old splinters dug into her fingers but she chose to file it under a later problem as she focused on an old pile of crates and for some reason netting draped across it. Did elves do a lot of land fishing?

      Well, in for a penny in for a pint, taking the dagger out of her mouth she balanced the hatch on her shoulders and, with one final breath, burst through, dashing up the stairs with her only blade raised in defiance.

      She slammed to a halt as a hard wind full of salty air hit her square in the face. Where was the ground? In every direction all she saw was blue: blue up, blue down, blue to the sides. The blue invaded her mind like a color coordinated army, it was all she saw even when she closed her eyes.

      Gasping as only a life long landlubber could, she half fell to the deck, that's what it was, not a floor but a deck, on a ship out in the middle of fuck all nowhere. Oh, shit. And she finally lost that long fought fight and hurled her breakfast from the tavern behind the crates of cargo.

      There's nothing like vomiting all over someone else's property to make one suddenly very self conscious and for the first time since stumbling across all that blue she felt the multitude of cat eyes glaring at her from various positions around the deck. They were all dressed not in uniforms but still strangely alike, a mix of dark blues and greens the better to blend into a forest Cas thought, strange for sailors to want to camouflage themselves.

      "What do you want?" she shouted out, suddenly remembering she was armed and Balor knew how far from steady unsalted land. A ship couldn't be that hard to pilot all on her own, right?

      The eyes continued to glare, very unhappy with this outburst but none made a move to correct it. Instead, they slowly got back to their work rigging mainsails and scrubbing planks the like, the edge of their eyes never leaving the armed human like how one watches a hamster that's gotten ahold of your nail clippers.

      A familiar voice lilted behind her, "Ah! You are to being awake. That is good." She turned slowly, afraid any sudden movements could invite the blue army back and stared eye to eye with her captor. The cloak and dagger stuff was gone, though he was still in that weird nightgown now a light shade of purple that was eerily glowing beneath the scrollwork.

      The 'line's eyes pleaded as he held his hands up in a calming gesture he'd seen the humans attempt around skittery horses (he didn't hang around long enough to watch the human get eviscerated by the horses hooves), "I am to be meaning you no harm. Did not I suspect the chwsg sillafa to work as half as well as it did."

      Cas kept the dagger out more for comfort's sake than any plans to bury it deep into innards, dreams of escaping away from these pointed eared freaks wafted away in the salty breeze, "You kidnapped me, you bastard."

      His head tilting a bit, the 'line asked, "I do not be knowing this 'Bastard?'"

      Not one to be leading any diplomatic missions anytime soon, Cas took the more proactive approach, "It's what you are, you jackhole."

      Choosing to skip over what could be a never ending circle of indecipherable insults, the elf placed one hand slowly on Cas's arm, "Please to be returning to your room. It is safer there," he pointed to the bright blue sky, "storm is coming."

      She may not be much of a sailor, but Cas could sense cloud convergence before any of the herd animals would bother to tilt an eye skyward. It was said that if you wanted to avoid natural disaster always stay one step ahead of her, though that could also be a reflection on the amount of destruction she herself seemed to cause. "The sky's as clear as a mountain stream," the 'line pulled on her arm again, motioning towards the hold. "Fine," she slotted her dagger back in its place, "but you'd better put down the swirly language and tell me what in the name of the underlord is going on. And get me something to eat."

      ***

      Munching on a light citrus fruit the name of which she spent 5 minutes trying to pronounce before settling on slightly reddish thing, Cas tried to connect with the first elf her generation had ever seen. "So, what's your name 'line?"

      "'Line? What is this line you keep using? I cannot find explanation of it," the elf curled up happily on the floor next to Cas who was uncertain how to sit intimidatingly on a surface that refused to remain in the same angle.

      Oh boy, now you done and stuck your boot in. Might as well hammer it all the way, "Line well feline, it's what we call you elves. Your eyes, they remind us of cats."

      "Cats?"

      "Small fuzzy creatures, they shed hair all over our beds, believe they're better than us and for some reason we always feed and shelter them."

      The elf laughed at that description and nodded, "Do, that sounds correct. More than one knows. We have names for you humans as well."

      "Oh? Let me guess, 'Large pink thing that dies easily?'"

      Not understanding a word the elf shook his head, "We call you ephemeros, phem when needing to be short. Named for a small insect that lives but one day in our world."

      "I suppose some introductions are in order. My name's Cas, just that. Cas."

      "Cllals, Coaes," the elf struggled with the foreign tongue, always finding human names the hardest to pronounce, "Cafs?"

      "Close enough. And what do they call you?"

      The elf touched his breast solemnly, "I am Glwvyddieon, Prentisio to the Assembly of Swynwr."

      "That was a whole lot of consonants there," Cas chewed on her fruit a bit more, amazed it was staying down, "So you're Gl-wyd-dayon?"

      "Glwvyddieon," he repeated calmly.

      "Gwylddon . . . Grwyden . . . Oh I got it, Gwydion."

      The elf smiled, "Close enough."

      Chuckling herself, Cas shifted a bit, "All right, Gwydion," in one quick move she wadded his nightgown in her fist and brought her blade up to his throat, "Now tell me what in the gods' names I'm doing here. And it better be an answer I like."

      Surprisingly, the elf didn't falter. He'd read a lot about the barbaric ways of humans and was expecting something like this. Truthfully he was expecting a lot more head butting and breast thumping based upon some of the more popular tales. "I am to being sorry you are upset."

      "You are to not be knowing me when I am upset. You'll know I'm upset when your guts are all over the floor," Cas tightened her grip, pulling the excessive purple eyes closer to her.

      "There was no other choices," Gwydion sighed, a strangely human gesture on such an alien face.

      "Oh, so every human you meet you bonk over the head and drag a couple miles to set sail for gods know where?"

      "I did not be bonking you on the head. I used a . . . A swyn on you," at Cas's face he tried again, "a magic, yes that is word. I put you under a magic."

      The dagger clattered to the ship's hull, sticking rather poetically in the middle of a knot. "You're a mage?!" She still kept one tight fist on the elf's clothes. It was hard to throw fireballs inches from your target without getting hit yourself. Or so she thought (most fire mages either learned adequate protection wards or wore as much unflammable material as possible).

      Gods, she'd managed to avoid all of those mustachioed, cackling he-devils all of her 30 years and now she was trapped in a room with one who looked like he was about as experienced as a toddler. A toddler that could call all manner of horrors from beyond wherever and do whatever to her.

      Magic was a mystery to Cas, and she preferred to keep it that way.

      Gwydion nodded again, "All elves contain small of swyn but only those born with true gifts are accepted to the Assembly. But I promise I will not use my "magic" on you again."

      Still unnerved, but trying her best to hide it under a mask of seasickness, Cas stuck out her hand, "Swear on it."

      Leaning over, the elf picked up her palm and let loose the most fascinating string of cursing she'd ever heard, "May your Llamander of the Grockling Suckle upon Lava from your Tavoin's teat!" He looked up at her, proud to have made his first human deal.

      "Er, right." Something tickled on the back of her ears and Gwydion looked up, almost guilty.

      "I must to be going now. It is still many days until we reach aelwyd. You shall be safest here," and before she could stand to block his way he flew through the door, snapping her side of the knob off as he went.

      How quickly she forgot just how easily even the weakest of these 'lines could easily out maneuver and over power her on her best day. Turning back to her bed of splinters she pulled her journal out of the chest and started to write.

      I'm gonna kill the elf.

Merry Elf

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 14:48:00 +0000

You've already started your holiday weekend haven't you? It's all right, you can tell me the truth.

I can take it.

Well everyone who's already off making merry and holly jollying and sledding naked down the snow pile in a walmart parking lot won't get to enjoy this.

Happy flee from your relatives day everyone.

An early present

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 13:43:00 +0000

This is the week that will never end, isn't it?

It has to be at least mid January by now, or somewhere around MLK day but it isn't even the 23rd of December yet! Has anyone checked on the Tardis lately? I fear it may have exploded again.

But the Christmas break is nearly upon us so it's a good time to spend 50 minutes in front of youtube reliving memories for childhood:

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 14:05:00 +0000

Twas the Night Before Christmas - Introverted Style

Twas the night before Christmas, fire on the yule log
Not a creature was stirring, except for the dog.
The stockings were left by the chimney alone,
In hopes that a mouse would not call them home.

The tv was cooling its power now undone,

From visions of alien ufo's and other reruns.
And me in my toe socks, covered in sheep,
Gave up and decided to head to sleep

When out on the road there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tripped over the dog and ripped my leg a gash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

I limped to the window and what did I see,

A strange old man with a sack full of trees.

He looked out of his mind and covered in puke
I knew in a moment it must be some kook

Tipping this and that his belches rattled his frame,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called out by name!

"Now Thrasher! now, Lancer! now, Rankor and Licksen!
On, Vomit! On, Stupid! on, on Dumbass and Nixon!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As only a drunkard's focus a ladder he raised,
His hair was matted and his eyes were crazed.
So up to the house-top the coursers they climbed,
I'd say something here but nothing rhymed.

And then, in a thud, I heard on the roof

At the man tripping, my dog gave a woof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney the transient came with a bound.

He was dressed all in spandex, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of cans he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his breath like a brewery!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard full of food was best to forgo.

The stump of a bottle he held tight in his teeth,
As most of the booze dribbled out beneath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he stumbled, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right frightening old elf,
And I screamed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had everything to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And swiped all the liquor, what a big jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And grabbing a rope, up the chimney he rose!

He slipped off the roof, to his friends gave a whistle,
And away he flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, we're gettin' hammered tonight!"

Robot Santa

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 13:30:00 +0000

Our Christmas Tree already houses a Tardis with a weeping angel watching, a Planet Express Ship and the recent addition of a Gun Turret from Portal "I see you."

But that is not enough. No sir! We require more proof that this is not a normal Christmas tree burning brightly with the souls of long forgotten bandits who wandered into the Will o' the wisps lair and never came back.

This one was pretty much all my husband's idea. It kept him busy while I was putting a Tardis in the Snow. He created the model using polymer clay and then I took out some paints, a vaguely steady hand and together we gave birth to Robot Santa:

Now he can decide who'd been naughty and who's been REALLY naughty on our tree.

I hear my husband's next plan is for a Krampus, so I expect a giant war to break out over who gets to punish naughty children at some point on the tree.

Tardis in Snow

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 13:26:00 +0000

Last week I got a for me somewhat hefty commission of the painting onto canvas type in the form of a Tardis in the Snow on a 16X20.

I will admit I was a touch terrified that there was no way I could possibly get it done before Christmas and that it would get caught shipping in that nebulous dangerous time along with all the other boxes hoping for a home.

Not to mention the fact I hadn't really picked up a brush and put to canvas in ages due to this thing called Hallowritinglife. It's a real time suck I swear.

But after making a quick run to the craft store (where I only had to clobber 10 grannies to make it out alive) I sat down with canvas and ruler and sketched out the Tardis.

Once it was there in all its boxy glory I painted the first layer brown, so now I know what the Tardis would look like if one day all the paint fell off. There was a method to my madness but it had something to do with cute hats on newts so it's not really worth mentioning.

The addition of some classic Tardis blue over the top and tada, the beginnings of the blue box:

After that I added all the signs and gave the box some more depth with shadows and a few more layers for a summery cut.

Oh and the tree, the customer wanted a Tardis by a tree. I swear I don't just put trees everywhere I please, generally.

So that's my Tardis in the Snow painting and also why I'm only getting my Christmas cards out now:

Kwanzaa Cake

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 13:30:00 +0000

If you haven't heard of the Kwanzaa Cake I'll wait while you watch this video to get all caught up. Don't worry, no rush.

Truly you must see this in all its WTF glory.

Done?

I have one of those mythical on-line friends who likes to hate that thing so I figured what would be a better ornament than the mythical kwanzaa cake?

It's a fairly easy shape for my husband to cut his teeth on until he gets to the sculpting point of making me a dragon. I want a dragon on my christmas tree damnit!

He make the angel food base poorly frosted, the "acorn" corn nuts along the base, the apple pie filling mercilessly jammed into the hole and the candles to pretend it's Kwanzaa.

Then I pulled out my paints and got to work.

I finished it off with some epoxy in the center to mimic the pie filling gel and then covered it all in a clear acrylic coating so it shined in all its horrific glory.

Hope you enjoy glaring at it Dawn.

Snowman Poop

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 13:21:00 +0000

It's that time of year again, it's always that time of year instead of being that time of the decade or millennium.

Christmas is knocking around in the walls demanding its fish heads so I decided to get a jump on the cookie plate by making my snowman poop and elf crap, which are quite possibly the easiest cookies in human existence.

And they're better frozen so they can be made rather early in advance.

Curious how to make them yourself? Well I just happen to have an old recipe post kicking around for all to enjoy.

Merry Mad Dash to the finish line.

I would like to introduce you all to the best cookie ever.

You don't need to have any baking skills at all to make them. Hell you don't even need an oven or pots or pans. Everyone loves them and they're gone before you can even turn around.

I have no idea what their real name is but we call them "Elf Crap" and "Snowman Poop." I've been making these bad boys since my Sophomore year in college when my best friend and I started a weird tradition of trying to make Christmas cookies in the dorms with no kitchen.

The first step, get yourself a huge bag of oreos and put them all in a zip lock bag (you may even want to double bag it).

Next pull out your beating utensil of choice. I've used everything from a hammer to a biochemistry textbook to a bottle of wine. This year I picked an ice cream scoop.
Then just start swinging:

While you're working out the stress of the day (it really helps to imagine you're punching that nosy relative who is sure to ask "Should you really be eating that?" in the face) have some almond bark melting in a crock pot. Or if you don't have a crock pot a microwave works just as well (and if you are in the middle of the woods with neither just start sitting on the almond bark til your body heat melts it).
While all this was going on you should have had a package of cream cheese (8 ounces) warming on the counter. What do you mean you didn't do that? Saying I didn't tell you is no excuse.

Well when you do pull that out and your cookies are thoroughly pulverized dump them into a bowl. After the cream cheese has warmed add it to the cookies and mix, mix, mix!
This is the best part as you get to goo up your entire hand in chocolate cream cheese goodness (and of course you have to lick some off to test it):
Once you're done mixing it all up together, and have finished cleaning up your hands (licking is perfect acceptable as I doubt any human being with taste buds could resist) it's time to make the Snowman poop.

Just form the cookie cheese mixture into a small ball and dip it into the almond bark. Then let them set out on the counter for a half hour or so:
All that work will yield a wonderful crop of poop related treats in neat little rows:

We always make chocolate as well (my personal favorite).Now just try to not eat them all up while they're sitting there. One word of warning, make sure to only get the Oreos with white filling. The dyed ones (you know in Red & Green) do horrible unspeakable things to almond bark (that was a really fun year trying to fix that mess).

They may not be the prettiest cookie out there but I bet even Martha Stewart would gobble a few down when no one is looking.

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 03:30:00 +0000

He's a chicken I tell you! A giant chicken!

Winter Blunder Land

noreply@blogger.com (IntrovertedWife) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 13:48:00 +0000

I'm in denial that it is really December.

Oh sure I'm grateful that November is dead and buried but that hasn't slowed down the business, if anything it's been this strange ride slowly up from October as more and more shit jumps up demanding attention.

At this rate the January plummet shall cause my ears to pop and possible nose bleeds. And then maybe one of those loops in February.

The first snow hit here on Saturday and kept hitting until everyone was shaking their shovels at the sky asking why? WHY MUST YOU BLIGHT US ALL?!

But everyone gets that way with the first snow. For the first hour it's pretty to watch, then as an inch accumulates it's exciting. By hour 4 you're gazing at the long since lost driveway thinking maybe nature can knock it off.

Come hour 10 when one should be sleeping but is instead gripping a mug of hot water glaring menacingly at each new white flake as though it killed your hamster snow madness has finally set in.

For me a fresh snowfall usually means picture time and this was no different.

Of course just because it was snowing didn't mean we couldn't not play with the dog so she was bundled up in her new coat (which she hasn't let us take off since) and since we couldn't make it to the dog park off to throw the ball in the miniscule wooded area in walking distance.

Out front our little gargoyle has remained from Halloween guarding over our few steps from evil spirits. I don't think he knew what to make of all that white stuff:

A few more hours in and the branch above him had practically obscured poor little Gargoyles vision, you can't frighten evil when trapped under mounds of snow. I think:

And because I have a skeleton and an axe I did my own reinterpretation of Skyrim. Loot the corpse! Loot the corpse!

More snow is supposed to come tomorrow so I'll either be photographing it on top of a tea service kit or really going out of my mind.