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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/1qRsVru:
Ha ha thanks! I fell down a terrifying rabbit hole today, since i had no phone and therefore couldn’t check Tumblr or Facebook or my texts or Twitter or anything but my email at work. Which meant I was stuck in Gdocs to amuse myself. And I got a bunch of Weird Poe Family Backstory written, which was kind of startling!
His Hinted-At Tragic Love Life is kind of the tip of the iceberg.
And Finn has a lot of work to do, but the bulk of his work isn’t exactly dealing with Poe’s shit. I mean, it’s a component, yeah, but he’s got so much more to do than that!
Literally nobody asked for this, but I wrote a scene today where Poe has a heart-to-heart with Norasol while they’re eviscerating chickens. Literally nobody wants me to self-insert that bit of my real life [hi new followers, my sister’s an organic chicken farmer and in the summers i help process them from live birdies into frozen ones] into fic, and yet.
Norasol inclined her head. “He did, though,” she said. “He knew you spoke Iberican before you even opened your mouth, didn’t he.”
“Yes,” Poe said. He cut the legs off the carcass, one at a time, dropped the feet into the bucket– it was all going for soup stock– and set his knife down to pick up the forceps to yank out the broken pin feathers left in the wings. “It was– it made me angry, Tia. I’m not like that. I’m not the same kind of– thing– as some smuggler. Just because maybe I speak the same language as him.”
“The gangs are more than just criminals,” Norasol said. “Crime pays, but the gangs have a reach the Republic doesn’t.” And she pushed her sleeve up by rubbing her elbow against her waist, turning her arm over to show him the spot on the inside of her elbow. She’d always had a little ink blot there, the same as Poe’s grandpa had on his wrist, a tiny design in faded blue.
“You said that was a protection spell,” Poe said. “Magic.” Norasol was deeply superstitious. So was Kes. Poe always pretended he wasn’t. Nobody knew about the invisible designs he sometimes drew inside doorways, or the wordless little prayers he made sometimes. It wasn’t superstition, it was just giving himself a little mental space to process the stress of his life. It was a healthy human impulse.
Norasol laughed. “Whose magic is it, though?” she asked. “Sometimes it’s just a protection sigil. For human eyes to read.” She used her fingers to spread her age-softened skin, and Poe could make out the familiar blurry design. His grandfather’s had been a little bigger, a little clearer, even as he had aged. It was a crown, carefully picked out with a fine needle.
Norasol’s fingers smeared chanticlo blood across her skin as she stretched the design. “It’s a crown,” she said. “The crown of the Vanished Kings.” Poe stared at her.
Ha ha thanks! I fell down a terrifying rabbit hole today, since i had no phone and therefore couldn’t check Tumblr or Facebook or my texts or Twitter or anything but my email at work. Which meant I was stuck in Gdocs to amuse myself. And I got a bunch of Weird Poe Family Backstory written, which was kind of startling!
His Hinted-At Tragic Love Life is kind of the tip of the iceberg.
And Finn has a lot of work to do, but the bulk of his work isn’t exactly dealing with Poe’s shit. I mean, it’s a component, yeah, but he’s got so much more to do than that!
Literally nobody asked for this, but I wrote a scene today where Poe has a heart-to-heart with Norasol while they’re eviscerating chickens. Literally nobody wants me to self-insert that bit of my real life [hi new followers, my sister’s an organic chicken farmer and in the summers i help process them from live birdies into frozen ones] into fic, and yet.
Norasol inclined her head. “He did, though,” she said. “He knew you spoke Iberican before you even opened your mouth, didn’t he.”
“Yes,” Poe said. He cut the legs off the carcass, one at a time, dropped the feet into the bucket– it was all going for soup stock– and set his knife down to pick up the forceps to yank out the broken pin feathers left in the wings. “It was– it made me angry, Tia. I’m not like that. I’m not the same kind of– thing– as some smuggler. Just because maybe I speak the same language as him.”
“The gangs are more than just criminals,” Norasol said. “Crime pays, but the gangs have a reach the Republic doesn’t.” And she pushed her sleeve up by rubbing her elbow against her waist, turning her arm over to show him the spot on the inside of her elbow. She’d always had a little ink blot there, the same as Poe’s grandpa had on his wrist, a tiny design in faded blue.
“You said that was a protection spell,” Poe said. “Magic.” Norasol was deeply superstitious. So was Kes. Poe always pretended he wasn’t. Nobody knew about the invisible designs he sometimes drew inside doorways, or the wordless little prayers he made sometimes. It wasn’t superstition, it was just giving himself a little mental space to process the stress of his life. It was a healthy human impulse.
Norasol laughed. “Whose magic is it, though?” she asked. “Sometimes it’s just a protection sigil. For human eyes to read.” She used her fingers to spread her age-softened skin, and Poe could make out the familiar blurry design. His grandfather’s had been a little bigger, a little clearer, even as he had aged. It was a crown, carefully picked out with a fine needle.
Norasol’s fingers smeared chanticlo blood across her skin as she stretched the design. “It’s a crown,” she said. “The crown of the Vanished Kings.” Poe stared at her.
