Since it’s St. Paddy’s Day, I wanted to give you all an update on what the deal is.
The long & short of it is that I went through a major change of life beginning in early spring; my relationship of 10 years ended. While I managed to keep posting semi-regularly for quite some time after that, the end of the marriage caused several other changes of life, namely, I had to go out and get new accommodations and a regular full-time job, some of which were temp positions which left me in somewhat unstable conditions. Then I moved *again*, leaving all my art stuff up in the air once more, and then I got a permanent full-time position, that left my writing schedule once again somewhat in chaos.
Right now I’m trying to get myself settled back in and I’m finally starting to have some success. It may still be two or three months until I give regular updates since I will be moving *yet again* in early April, but that should be a semi-permanent move. (I was staying with relatives prior to this based on their proximity to my workplace.) Once I’m totally moved in in spring, expect–one year later–for updates to come regularly again.
I think I may change the format of things slightly; now that I have less time, I think there will be fewer but much higher quality pictures, rather than more lower quality ones. I think overall it will be a good tradeoff.
Feel free to tell me what’s on you guys minds and thanks for reading.
"There's, uh... that is... Rushing Creek is having... a Beltane festival, and... well, if you'd like to go together...."
It looked like I had to give up my quest to find out the truth about my father’s death, at least for the time being. Even though I couldn’t really give myself a reason why it mattered if he died heroically by a vandal’s hand or a unseelie faery’s hand or by anyone else’s hand, not knowing bothered me. Moon-Singer talked about revenge, but I wasn’t even sure it was that simple. Sure, I couldn’t call myself a fan of Pig-Sticker, especially after what Moon-Singer had said. But I wasn’t sure I could really call what I felt toward him anger or a thirst for vengeance. More… frustration. Frustration that some vandal’s feud with my father meant I had to deal with playing catch-up now.
The fact was, I still felt out of place, even weeks later and with some pretty intensive training under my belt. I was getting more familiar with other members of the ætt, but I could tell I was still relying on Moon-Singer.
"He was your father's greatest Nemesis, and most people thought that if one of them died, it would be by the other's hand."
That night, me and my mom ate dinner with Moon-Singer’s family. I don’t know if he was worried I would be shaken after what had happened, but I saw it as an opportunity to ask about what had been on my mind all day.
“Who is Pig-Sticker?” I asked, putting down my fork and looking at Moon-Singer.
Blue-Flame struggled to run through the open door as a dark, billowing cloud surrounded him.
“Good,” I said. I glanced backward; Moon-Singer had said the exact same thing. Maybe I was spending a little too much time around him.
“I’ll cut right to the chase,” Moon-Singer said, stepping in front of me and brandishing his sword. “Are you Ghost?”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” she replied, leaning on her black cane.
“Answer me, or I’ll cut you down!” Moon-Singer demanded, stepping toward her.
It must have been a faery, but they were ghastlier and more frightening than any faery I had yet seen.
“I’m surprised they haven’t left the trailer,” Blue-Flame remarked, glancing around suspiciously. “There’s no way they missed that fight.”
Moon-Singer scratched his beard. “They might be out here already and waiting for an opportune moment,” He said.
“Maybe they plan on ambushing us when we go inside,” Black-Wind suggested, landing beside Blue-flame.
A gaunt black dog jumped where he had been had been standing; its thin, angler-fish like teeth were bared and it had huge, red eyes the size of saucers.
Moon-Singer led the way into the woods by the road. He stopped every once in awhile and sniffed the air. As a wolf, the forest was full of smells from everyone who had passed by, but there was distinctive stench coming from up the road, a sickly-sweet, vaguely rancid odor. As we headed toward the elfdan, the smell only became worse. We approached the double-wide trailer Moon-Singer had told us about; it was painted black and dilapidated, with the windows obscured from the inside by dusty blinds. The smell of death was overwhelming, and there was a sort of faint, black shadow I could see sulking around the corners of my vision.
Don’t worry, I’m not dead! Just really exhausted the past couple of weeks. Angry REmembrance will be back by this friday; I might try to post twice this week to make up for all the laziness.
Two weeks passed before Moon-Singer was finally ready to confront Ghost. In that time, I had been fervently training, hoping that my practice combined with the protection of my father would guarantee that I would come out of the encounter all right. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but I really felt like I needed to find out the truth about my father’s murder. If this ghost had been the one to do it, I wanted to stare him in the face and let him how much what he’d done had messed with my life.
Somehow I had always assumed that Healing-tears was something a bit.... smaller, like a wolf or a lynx.
And Moon-Singer’s, really. My time spent at the ætt was fast approaching the one month mark, I had come to depend on Moon-Singer to help me through my life at the ætt. Not just for training and learning, but for helping me assimilate into therian society.
"Black-Wind was willing to spend time with me at a time when a lot of the other ætt members were keeping their distance."
For board games, it was pretty well packed. Just about everyone in the ætt was there, including Moon-Singer. Black-Wind waved to me and pointed to an empty chair beside him. Sitting diagonally across from him was a guy in his twenties, maybe; he was Asian, with short, gelled hair covered in bright blue streaks.
"My god... she murdered her?"
I knew that the business with Shining-Tooth was none of my business. But there are some things that just rouse your curiosity too much to let sleeping dogs lie.
“Moon-Singer,” I said as we put away our spears for the day. “What can you tell me about Shining-Tooth?”
Moon-Singer raised an eyebrow. “She’s your aunt,” he said. “Iron-Will and Crow-Feather’s mother. Why?”
“She doesn’t live here anymore. But Crow-Feather said my father and her were very close, and that she was Master of Debate. What happened?”
Moon-Singer sat down on the varnished wood floor. “Where did you hear about this?” he asked, frowning.