blow the man down (incomplete)
Sep. 14th, 2020 09:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysTitle: Blow the Man Down
Rating: PG
Series: A House of Many Doors (Char Dvestistek)
Wordcount: 463
Remarks: I've been trying the old writer's block remedy of just writing any old thing until it clears and... mostly not succeeding. Still, I didn't mind this patch of scribble. Mild spoiler for Char's questline.
Augustus' cigars are as boring as the stiff-necked old pilot himself, which might be reason to quit pinching them for anyone with a limited imagination. But Char's an alchemist, kinda sorta mostly, and an enterprising spirit, and most importantly she's a woman who knows adding a pinch of dragon spice to a bad durry makes for a decent enough bit of puff - at half the guineas as anything proper street-rolled, no less.
From her sprawl on the medbay bunk she exhales a lazy mushroom cloud at the ceiling, the burn crackling up her throat and crisping her nostril hairs, and keeps on not thinking about being a god.
She's gotten pretty good at it. Sometimes she even gets to thinking instead about what she'll say when someone comes asking after her great wisdom on kicking the 'smoke - the 'smoke, that is, not this gentle heat. Pictures herself standing in one of the Hextall halls in front of all the wide-eyed scholar acolytes, laying out solid advice like it's the rankest pint of raw piss you'll ever pour down your gullet, muckers, but admitting you have a problem's the first step.
Or, chewing consecrated jerky just isn't the same, so you might as well save yourself the runic tongue blisters.
Or, if you find a kinetopede captain barmy enough to hire on a godsmoke addict and then agree you've got a spitting chance at sobriety even though you bashed 'em in the ribs that one time, you better jump on her faster than Governer's Men on a dissenting opinion.
The smile that pulls at her lips is wide and fond. Yeah, that's the good stuff.
Somewhere out past the thick plates of the Affinity’s hull the gabbling roar and lurid neon of Buzzard's Omen will be in full swing. The captain will be swinging along with it, or at least doing whatever it was she and Otto had planned with the old birdcage they'd been hauling. Trading it for a told fortune, maybe. Plenty of those to be found out here.
Plenty of anything to be found out here. In stalls and alleys, in pockets and pouches - in little glass vials fogged thick and dark and seething.
Doesn't matter though. Doesn't matter. She's staying right in here, nice and cosy behind four walls and a ceiling.
Because she is Char Dvetistek, and she's going to be a proper motherfucking alchemist again, and she is not thinking about what it feels like to inhale the vaporous dreams of a dead god and exhale the trembling particles of an unmade universe.
"Shit," she mutters, and pulls the cigar away to spit a resentful stream of embers into the air. A few drift to the folds of her robe still glowing and start to smoulder in earnest.
Rating: PG
Series: A House of Many Doors (Char Dvestistek)
Wordcount: 463
Remarks: I've been trying the old writer's block remedy of just writing any old thing until it clears and... mostly not succeeding. Still, I didn't mind this patch of scribble. Mild spoiler for Char's questline.
Augustus' cigars are as boring as the stiff-necked old pilot himself, which might be reason to quit pinching them for anyone with a limited imagination. But Char's an alchemist, kinda sorta mostly, and an enterprising spirit, and most importantly she's a woman who knows adding a pinch of dragon spice to a bad durry makes for a decent enough bit of puff - at half the guineas as anything proper street-rolled, no less.
From her sprawl on the medbay bunk she exhales a lazy mushroom cloud at the ceiling, the burn crackling up her throat and crisping her nostril hairs, and keeps on not thinking about being a god.
She's gotten pretty good at it. Sometimes she even gets to thinking instead about what she'll say when someone comes asking after her great wisdom on kicking the 'smoke - the 'smoke, that is, not this gentle heat. Pictures herself standing in one of the Hextall halls in front of all the wide-eyed scholar acolytes, laying out solid advice like it's the rankest pint of raw piss you'll ever pour down your gullet, muckers, but admitting you have a problem's the first step.
Or, chewing consecrated jerky just isn't the same, so you might as well save yourself the runic tongue blisters.
Or, if you find a kinetopede captain barmy enough to hire on a godsmoke addict and then agree you've got a spitting chance at sobriety even though you bashed 'em in the ribs that one time, you better jump on her faster than Governer's Men on a dissenting opinion.
The smile that pulls at her lips is wide and fond. Yeah, that's the good stuff.
Somewhere out past the thick plates of the Affinity’s hull the gabbling roar and lurid neon of Buzzard's Omen will be in full swing. The captain will be swinging along with it, or at least doing whatever it was she and Otto had planned with the old birdcage they'd been hauling. Trading it for a told fortune, maybe. Plenty of those to be found out here.
Plenty of anything to be found out here. In stalls and alleys, in pockets and pouches - in little glass vials fogged thick and dark and seething.
Doesn't matter though. Doesn't matter. She's staying right in here, nice and cosy behind four walls and a ceiling.
Because she is Char Dvetistek, and she's going to be a proper motherfucking alchemist again, and she is not thinking about what it feels like to inhale the vaporous dreams of a dead god and exhale the trembling particles of an unmade universe.
"Shit," she mutters, and pulls the cigar away to spit a resentful stream of embers into the air. A few drift to the folds of her robe still glowing and start to smoulder in earnest.
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Date: 2020-09-15 02:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-16 04:05 am (UTC)