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I fear I may have given away too much already to those of you who have not heard this story before, but I will be patient about it anyway—and without much regard for Íora's ever-so-subtle disapproval. It is a story you need to hear, sisters, whether or not you can stomach it now. When I am gone and you have only your own memories of this night to pass on to your own grand-daughters, perhaps even after we have found a new home, you will want to be able to tell the tale properly. Gleméa was interrupted similarly by Kona, you see, when telling me her own story of her childhood, and I have but the scantiest detail for some of the most intriguing chapters of it. I have no intention of letting yet another great account of the history of our people become filled with similar lacunae—let the ravages of time do that without my assistance. […]
I fear I may have given away too much already to those of you who have not heard this story before, but I will be patient about it anyway—and without much regard for Íora's ever-so-subtle disapproval. It is a story you need to hear, sisters, whether or not you can stomach it now. When I am gone and you have only your own memories of this night to pass on to your own grand-daughters, perhaps even after we have found a new home, you will want to be able to tell the tale properly. Gleméa was interrupted similarly by Kona, you see, when telling me her own story of her childhood, and I have but the scantiest detail for some of the most intriguing chapters of it. I have no intention of letting yet another great account of the history of our people become filled with similar lacunae—let the ravages of time do that without my assistance. […]
I have been toying around with a theory lately.
It's a wildly unpopular one, so that's fun.
Well. Not so much a theory as it is an excuse.
Calvin and Hobbes is harmful. […]
It's a wildly unpopular one, so that's fun.
Well. Not so much a theory as it is an excuse.
Calvin and Hobbes is harmful. […]
Two related announcements:
1. I now really, really dislike Archaic Lilitic as a family of languages.
2. The script traditionally known as títina (internally, ADX revision 5) has a lot of ductus issues that, as a certain Swiss gentleman has pointed out, liberally violate my own criticisms of many other conscripts.
So! There is going to be some reworking. […]
1. I now really, really dislike Archaic Lilitic as a family of languages.
2. The script traditionally known as títina (internally, ADX revision 5) has a lot of ductus issues that, as a certain Swiss gentleman has pointed out, liberally violate my own criticisms of many other conscripts.
So! There is going to be some reworking. […]
The subject of women in Ksreskézaian society and pre-Ksreskézaian society, other than the Slokdtabasa, is something I've pretty much categorically avoided. If I have written anything, either on Memory or in passing elsewhere, it hasn't been very strong and it certainly hasn't been anything so memorable that I remember what I said, excepting perhaps a remark or two about non-plug-in-socket genitals. I think maybe it's time to set the record straight.
In the time of the Ksreskézai, the naming of houses followed the name of its patriarch—Tévopo, Chúkoto, Gazdatto—but this was not always their way. The true centrepiece of an Oksian household was once the single female, who lived much longer than the males and functioned as a matriarch. This was the way of the Oksasa for countless millennia, and was a pattern that could still be seen in other related species and in the remnants of the other Oksian civilizations on Ksreskézo. Such a household would be like an insect colony, writ small.
Then came Oksresko. […]
In the time of the Ksreskézai, the naming of houses followed the name of its patriarch—Tévopo, Chúkoto, Gazdatto—but this was not always their way. The true centrepiece of an Oksian household was once the single female, who lived much longer than the males and functioned as a matriarch. This was the way of the Oksasa for countless millennia, and was a pattern that could still be seen in other related species and in the remnants of the other Oksian civilizations on Ksreskézo. Such a household would be like an insect colony, writ small.
Then came Oksresko. […]
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"I think I know the place you are speaking of," said Íoya, her features drawn together. "With certainty there is a mansion in the old marshlands, south of the oasis, but it is on the grounds of the Kégivko Ceremonial Game Reserve. No slave is allowed anywhere near that place." She sighed, as if she had been holding in her breath, and swept herself away, now very much disinclined to support the easterner's sororal piety. It was not a practice native to Tévopían slokdtabasa, who were much more accustomed to palace intrigue and the art of sharpening daggers to bury in each others' backs.
So that was how the scene must have looked to Regsabta and Íoya: consciously or not, they would have counted their poison arrow-tips, and gloated in a subdued smugness at Gloto-Tyogía's openness. Regsabta's rescue of the battered creature had not been entirely selfless, whether or not she wants to white-wash it now, hundreds of years after the fact.
Stop groaning. […]
"I think I know the place you are speaking of," said Íoya, her features drawn together. "With certainty there is a mansion in the old marshlands, south of the oasis, but it is on the grounds of the Kégivko Ceremonial Game Reserve. No slave is allowed anywhere near that place." She sighed, as if she had been holding in her breath, and swept herself away, now very much disinclined to support the easterner's sororal piety. It was not a practice native to Tévopían slokdtabasa, who were much more accustomed to palace intrigue and the art of sharpening daggers to bury in each others' backs.
So that was how the scene must have looked to Regsabta and Íoya: consciously or not, they would have counted their poison arrow-tips, and gloated in a subdued smugness at Gloto-Tyogía's openness. Regsabta's rescue of the battered creature had not been entirely selfless, whether or not she wants to white-wash it now, hundreds of years after the fact.
Stop groaning. […]
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At that moment a sort of stillness overcame the ship's lounge. The atmosphere had grown steadily quieter as the hours dragged on; the novice poets and muses had stopped humming their novelties for one another, leaving only the hushed tones of the elders and the occasional clink of a posset bowl. The gay tones of the ubiquitous murals that encrusted every corner of the Zelúkwía had seen better days, lending yet more to the tiredness of the celebration.
Íora rolled her eyes at the silence, her attention slow, lugubrious. She had spent the morning defending her latest literary innovation to her editor, who was utterly opposed to printing it. This time, it had not resulted in any perforated wings, but she was still sore, both in body and mind.
She swilled her bowl about, reflecting on this, and other conflicts of opinion. Checking the bottom of her drink was another personal habit—she had once swallowed a lump of ergot that someone had spat into her bowl the morning after a wild party, and the experience had never quite stopped haunting her. […]
At that moment a sort of stillness overcame the ship's lounge. The atmosphere had grown steadily quieter as the hours dragged on; the novice poets and muses had stopped humming their novelties for one another, leaving only the hushed tones of the elders and the occasional clink of a posset bowl. The gay tones of the ubiquitous murals that encrusted every corner of the Zelúkwía had seen better days, lending yet more to the tiredness of the celebration.
Íora rolled her eyes at the silence, her attention slow, lugubrious. She had spent the morning defending her latest literary innovation to her editor, who was utterly opposed to printing it. This time, it had not resulted in any perforated wings, but she was still sore, both in body and mind.
She swilled her bowl about, reflecting on this, and other conflicts of opinion. Checking the bottom of her drink was another personal habit—she had once swallowed a lump of ergot that someone had spat into her bowl the morning after a wild party, and the experience had never quite stopped haunting her. […]
We're going to sit down, you and I, and we're going to talk. And we're going to talk for a while—I'll be honest, I haven't decided how long I'm going to talk for yet—and we're going to see where that takes us. I'm not exactly sure who you are or why you're reading this; you might be an annoyed Isharian, or a real-world coworker, or someone from SL who just clicked far too many links because you read peoples' profiles even though it's vogue not to, or you might be a rather integral part of my life, past or present, wondering why I didn't mention this here thing sooner.
For now, though, let's see where it takes us. […]
For now, though, let's see where it takes us. […]
Do not call your project 'Phoenix.'
Realistically—don't call it anything related to fire, explosions, awesomeness, or power.
In fact, if your favourite colour is red, orange, or anything else you or a friend might consider fiery, then if at all possible, get a new favourite colour. This advice extends beyond programming, but is particularly important in the context of application naming. (Mauve, crimson, maroon, tangerine, and amber are fine.)
Realistically—don't call it anything related to fire, explosions, awesomeness, or power.
In fact, if your favourite colour is red, orange, or anything else you or a friend might consider fiery, then if at all possible, get a new favourite colour. This advice extends beyond programming, but is particularly important in the context of application naming. (Mauve, crimson, maroon, tangerine, and amber are fine.)
previous
Íoya Tshúkoto. A woman as smug as her horns were straight.
She was an outcast of sorts, at least within the household and its staff; the last of a once-dominant bloodline, her kin had steadily been supplanted by Regsabta's cousins and sisters over the past three centuries. And she had not blended well, either: a strong, wedge-shaped chin and peculiar outward-pointing, flat ears made it clear to any visitor that she was not of the same stock. Her features rather reminded Regsabta of an inverted five-point star, which was a good omen in the far north and hence a bad one in the capital and other equatorial metropoles. […]
Íoya Tshúkoto. A woman as smug as her horns were straight.
She was an outcast of sorts, at least within the household and its staff; the last of a once-dominant bloodline, her kin had steadily been supplanted by Regsabta's cousins and sisters over the past three centuries. And she had not blended well, either: a strong, wedge-shaped chin and peculiar outward-pointing, flat ears made it clear to any visitor that she was not of the same stock. Her features rather reminded Regsabta of an inverted five-point star, which was a good omen in the far north and hence a bad one in the capital and other equatorial metropoles. […]
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