part the 2

I never could get the hang of mornings.

Before the suns contemplated rising, before even the Army though it was time to be up & at 'em, and certainly before any rational human being's criteria for what constitutes morning had been fulfilled, I found myself stumbling away from the safety of our camp after Sergeant Feil, half of me dressed and the other half asleep.
The broken ground and unbroken chilly wind of the meandering hanging vale he forged down did little to aid my composure. Rehearsed explanations rebounded off my fuddled brain, the occasional phrase piercing a little into my awareness, and I grunted acknowledgement as the issue of bland wherewithals and by-your-leaves tapered off; "...Which is why I though it best to raise you as soon as I was able, Sahir."
I finally tugged my tunic, scarf and sword-belt into some form vaguely worthy of an officer, and as I looked about our path to gain my bearings my brain finally caught up with my ears. I nearly cried aloud as the cold dagger of despair stabbed into my belly.
If I had read his meaning, near impossible as it was not to, I had slept through events most terrible this night.
That dreadful dagger thrust deeper as Feil's pace slowed, and I found myself near-feverish as the moonlight illuminated dark shapes in the gloom amongst the rock and thorn some hundred yards ahead of us. Feil stood to one side respectfully, his bearded visage inscrutable in the half-light, and the weight of my worries dragged me downward. Closer, I was able to discern the high cockaded caps of a handful of Grist's Dragoons, on foot, gathered 'round a cluster of low shadows, and flanking them, a cluster of horses and a scatter of mounted troopers. The wind and valley walls brought mutterings and chucklings to my ears, which died away swiftly as my booted foot lost its battle with the odds and slipped on an outcrop, announcing my presence. Their identity was not lost on me, and the fact they had doubtless already informed His Lordship was in no way comforting, but it was that pitiful huddle of dark shapes they guarded with loaded fusils that dispelled the blissful disbelief of the early morning - and any hope I had left that there was some misunderstanding. For there, on the unwelcoming rocky floor of that forsaken valley, with hands and feet bound, lay half a dozen men; my men; deserters.

Full understanding ground my pace to a halt and, finding myself utterly incapable of trying to meet the pleading eyes I knew the captives must have fixed upon me, I turned my focus instead to their captives. Speaking slowly and enunciating clearly, I addressed the still-mounted dragoons and asked whom was in charge.
"That'd be me, begging your pardon, Sahir." One of the mounted troopers spurred gently towards me, stopping close enough for me to smell the saddle-sores, and, lifting his right leg out of the stirrup and over the pommel, smoothly twisted side-on in the saddle to show the stripes on his shoulder - The change of angle doing nothing to improve his countenance, I can tell you.
I hardly noticed at the time, such was my anxiety for the fates of my men and my future, but that Dragoon Sergeant must have been a true veteran, a born soldier, if you will; nobody of lesser skills could have spoke with such copious quantities of professionalism and insolence in equal measure.
"A good morning to you, Sahir,' he spoke, with a drawl verging on sarcasm and a grin audibly brimming with relish, 'I do hope you slept well. Alas, myself and my boys, now, we haven't slept a wink - have we lads?"
He swivelled that damnable smirk of his beatifically downhill, and was rewarded with a supportive chuckle from out of the gloom.
"Lucky for you, Sahir, that we were awake enough to spot these little piglets and round 'em up before they got too far; and lucky for us, too.' He shifted in his saddle, getting more comfortable, then leaned down toward me to deliver the punchline, 'The lads haven't seen a good pull in weeks!"
That sergeant had the measure of me, and no mistake, for even as he threw his head back to bellow a great laugh, counterpointed by a wail sent up from one of my poor damned lads, he still kept one horrid little eye on my face - to his satisfaction as an appalled expression gripped my features. The wail drew my glance onto the captives in time to see the butt of a dragoon's fusil fall like an axe-blow and cut the sound short.

---
more opinions welcome...

I am an emotive jellyfish

The combination of extensive quantities of musical wonder pouring deep into my essence, a mild hangover, too much coffee, and some kind of nicotine withdrawal are giving me the bitch-twitches. I feel I should gel my hair into an unflattering fringe.

I am as flighty and terrified as a hummingbird on acid. My metabolism is slower, so it takes longer to leave my system. I am, however, free from a lot of baggage I once carried upon my head. I am enjoying this while at the same time I am scared. I am teetering on the brink of feeling OK. I appear to be writing in a self-absorbed stream of consciousness. I should go back on livejournal. Last night I met girls I used to fancy, and they bored me, it was petty but I had to exorcise teenage inadequacies. I'm probably going to make it worse today. I need to wash. I need to run. I might just retreat. I might not. Maybe you'll see me there.

Much more importantly, I had a fun concept, a Jamie-Hewletty vision from Slumdog, which I will fold into a future rhetorical enterprise. The world needs more fat men on scooters with sticks.

I need to write more. I need to get out more. I need a new job. All good things come to those who make the fucking effort.

rant expired.

it's been a wee while

today I've been in Fife for my grandad's 100th birthday party. This is an event of no small importance, as through his personality, he has been a firm patriarch to an extended clan of considerable size.

On display, we had four toddlers, four juniors, two preteens, no teenagers (that's probably for the best) about a dozen of my peers (all but me, malc and amy with kids) and a whole load of beloved ancients. We were regailed with an abbreviated transcript of Grandad's life, and I was able to look through some fascinating old photos, articles, and even see a genuine 100-year-old birth certificate.

Most fascinating, at least in this yet-more-abbreviated context, is the fact that in the past 24 years never once did I find out his name is not Alestair, but in fact George. Due to his father also being called George, he naturally was always referred to by his middle name; and the strange spelling comes from the registrar for Tighnabruaich in the 1909 era. Originally born George Alison Bennett, his parents returned to the registrar's office a few weeks later to request that he may also have the middle name of Alastair. To this irregularity the registrar agreed, but only on the condition that it was spelled in his preferred way - Alestair, instead of Alastair, so as to not have the Gaelic origin. Thus 100 years of confusion and patient explanation was born!

That's enough for now, more in the near-future.

Most retarded ninja move ever

I'm catching up on some mad-ass Naruto action, and a goodie-mook just turned himself into the door of the building he's staking out. This is a good idea because they had blown up that door upon their arrival, thinking their target was there, as ninjas do.

So that's it folks. Don't change into a door that's likely to be exploded.


Top tip for the day...

Part 1 of something

Please anyone who reads this make comments on how to improve on this initial stab.

What a terrible day.

Flashes and screams in the gloom. Clouds of smoke, uplit with pretty little orange-grey flashes and thuds and screams. Shadows and tangled blurs and the desperate moans of the doomed and the dying all wrapped up in pretty little orange-grey flashes. I am crumpled, pinned, shellshocked and horrified, bleeding my life into the dirt as I look down through the half-light into hell.

And all I can think about is what a terrible birthday it’s turned out to be.

Up until a brief moment ago I might have been less certain. The year I’d had a wrathful contagion that had called for a vigorous course of bloodworms and solitary confinement had always been a strong contender for that title, and the time I’d broken a finger with Master Tunng then my favourite dormon shuffled gently on, I had made my displeasure emphatically known.

My cousin Merynka, arrogant, insular Merynka, once told me that a man re-lives his last day when he dies, every taste and itch, every action and choice, and in doing so his spirit learns from its mistakes.

What can be learned from such a rotten stinking horrible day I challenge anyone to know.

Release the Blogs of War

This was my original notes for the story, many of which are now obsolete, but I'm posting them anyway, I'll put up the rest of my notes at some point soon.

A feudal system with Napoleonic technology, but more importantly, the necessary politics. Pressure on nearby neighbours from an expanding force nearby. Similar to Peninsular campaign, but the Mark - realm of the Marquis, the homeland of the subject characters - is not a separate island, tempting as it may be, but a peninsular itself. There is a growing political pressure that leads to a dispatch of a campaign force. Need to differentiate from sharpe somehow; well for starters there's flying machines, airships and perfect plywood constructs.
needs more, then a start. The story will eventually lead off-world, and the forces of chaos will be personal and internalised in their evil, subtle in fact; and the Marquis has a small caché of lasguns and other holy relics. The relationship of Imperial creed to the world, and the relationship of the Imperium as a whole, is distant and mysterious. The Imperial monks resident at his capital will be decendants of the original missionaries, derided as crazy.

Marmalade Skies

A few useful things.

One, reading Commando comics all day is actually quite depressing compared to jobhunting.

Two, Múm's album, Go Go Smear The Poison Ivy, is really really pretty.

Three, Another 40k story possibility - A series of adventures growing on a feudal world, with Napoleonic tech-level, where the Imperium is but a distant rumour, only having the most minimal diplomatic presence. So something similar to the 95th's Peninsular campaign, but with the occasional lasgun, and the gradual rise of something horrible in a rival empire. Perhaps an eventual Imperium arrival, maybe even a drafting of veterans? This has close links to the past ideas for the 'Spicers', which doubtless I will try and write an initial story about then post here.

Four, I have such a silly amount of music, it's actually silly.