it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken
matociquala

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We part the veil on our killer sun

Mugged by another scene from AtWS today.

Wolfy Gothboy (sometimes he's Gothy Wolfboy) wanted a gothy scenelet.

Sometimes, my Process works like this:

wolfygothboy: (twisting a boot on the rug) Uh, Bear?

matociquala: (warily) Yes, Mingan?

wolfygothboy: I want a reaction scene. It'll help re-establish sympathy after....

matociquala: ...after the gratuitous psychic rape and prostitute-visiting?

wolfygothboy: ...

matociquala: *waits*

wolfygothboy: It wasn't gratuitous.

matociquala: I'm sure you think it was justified. What sort of a scene would you like?

wolfygothboy: A dream scene?

matociquala: Oh, for the love of-- not just no, but--

wolfygothboy: ...okay okay. A post-dream scene?

matociquala: You don't sleep.

wolfygothboy: No, it'll be good. It works! Because you know, you gave me POV. So you have to show the root of the changes that Muire notices, later on. Let me show you....

matociquala: ...you're gonna have to do better than ripping off a Sting song, kid. Do you have any idea how good his lawyers are?

wolfygothboy: :-*

matociquala: Oh, god, don't pout. Okay, you can keep the rain and fire imagery. But the flowers go.

wolfygothboy: As long as I get to keep the creepy roses later.

matociquala: Yes, keep the creepy roses. Fine. Just don't expect the narrative to pretend it doesn't know they're a cliche.

wolfygothboy: Anything you want, ma'am. I'm your boy.

matociquala: That'll be the day. Just you wait for The Sea thy Mistress. You will pay, and pay, and pay.

wolfygothboy: *grin* Can we listen to the Sting song now?

matociquala: YOU ARE NOT WALKING AWAY WITH ANOTHER GODDAMNED B@#K, MOTHERFUCKER!

wolfygothboy: (*score!*)


The wolf dreams of clean rain and wakes weeping.


The wolf dreams of clean rain and wakes weeping. These are not his dreams. He does not dream.

He does not sleep.

Once he dreamed waking; once he moved through the world as a dream. A wolf-dream, a sword-dream. No longer: there are no wolves nor einherjar to need his dreaming now.

When he rubs his palms across his eyes, all he feels is dust.

It's soft.

These are Muire's dreams he is dreaming; this is Muire's sleep he is sleeping. She is frail, worn, ancient. Almost mortal now. She eats, she bleeds, she sleeps, she pisses. Like any animal.

She dreams.

And having devoured her, the Grey Wolf dreams, as well. He dreams of rain but wakes to fire. He is burning, burning still, burning behind his heart, burning along his bones.

It's the price you pay forever, when you swallow down the sun.




Yeah, he's giving me incomplete pentameter. He may be getting some, but by God I'm making sure he's working for it.
Tags: edda of burdens, the grey wolf, the writer at work, writing craft wank
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