| Over the summer... |
[19 Aug 2005|01:51am] |
The sun began to burn off the morning fog that seems to herald the start of every day in Pennsylvania.
Spindle stands just outside the front door of the house he shares with Freida, a mug of coffee clutched in his one hand. Taking a careful sip, he looks out across campus. It's green lawns are empty of students, inhabited now only by the occasional bird or squirrel. The buildings all stand tall and dark and still. So very, very still.
The past few months since school ended have been good to him and his wife. The school hired him on to help with the school grounds and maintenance, while the odd job in town brought in a few bucks more. A bit of a growth spurt even put another inch on the scrawny Nocker. Their house, obstentially a guest house as far as mortals were concerned, was finally finished, or at least as finished as a Nocker house ever can be.
I'm just afraid to finish, he admits to himself, 'Cause then I'll do a damn fool thing and start looking for any fucking flaws in it.
Spindle continues to watch the sunrise through the steam of his coffee, his thoughts pensive and uneasy.
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| Week 24, EARLY Monday moring |
[06 Dec 2004|08:11am] |
Spindle drags the last of his toolboxes into his room at Whiteoak.
"Looks like you have the room to yourself?" Tripper sits on the desk chair, he petite legs crossed. The Goblin girl works a file across her fingernails.
"Dunno. Haven't seen skyscraper boy for a while, and almost all of his shit is gone," Spindle looks up at the image of Tesla glaring down at him. "You know, you really shouldn't have dragged your sorry ass here. It's done and over, right?"
Tripper shrugs. "Delayed. Business is business. You don't want to make use of what I brought to the deal anymore, that's your dick's loss. Besides," she grins at him, "I've grown rather fond of you.."
Spindle frowns. "Tripper? Fuck off."
"I'd love to," she says standing, "But your Boggan bitch would get her panties into a Gordian knot if we did." Shrugging into her coat, she gives him a pointy-toothed leer. "I need to get going anyway. Derricks might have a huge cock, but he can't find his balls with a guiding hand."
The Nocker opens the door for her without a second's hesitation. "Fine. Great. Whatever. Get out."
Walking to the open door, motorcycle helmet under her arm, she looks right at Spindle. Tripper stops before him, the smell of sweat and oil and babypowder strong and cloying. She lightly runs violet fingernails along his cheek in a caress. "Believe it or not? I only faked it twice."
Then the Goblin is out the door. "Be seeing you, Spindle Shanks."
Spindle breathes a sigh of relief as he closes the door on the sultry Goblin girl. Should have introduced her to Travis.
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| Week 22 - A letter mailed to Freida on Monday Jan 26th |
[15 Nov 2004|01:58pm] |
Dear Freida,
I miss you. What else can I say? Try as I might, do as I might, I’ll be fucked sideways with a tractor trailor if I haven’t thought of you at least once each night since I left.
Yeah. I left. You probably hate me for that. Everyone probably hates me for that. Can any of you understand? Shit, I’m not sure I do. I remember once when Ailan took off for a few days. I managed to stop him before he left. Can’t remember what the smeg we were talking about, but he more or less said he had a dragon to slay. No one really commented on his taking off, except maybe Silia. Will it be like that for me if I come back? I don’t know.
Should I come back? That’s something else I’ve been thinking of a lot. I miss it. God, I miss it. I miss you.
Is this making any fucking sense??
If you knew some of the drek I’ve started fooling with... I can’t even describe it. It’s like there’s something dark welling within me. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have left well enough alone. I shouldn’t have left. But without you, I couldn’ t see any point in staying either. I ‘ve made a bargin, a stupid, stupid, stupid fucking deal.
Goddammit. I just don’t have the words! I can’t say what I want to say because I’ve got no clue what to say much less how to feaguing say it!
I did everything I could think of to put you out of my mind. I buried my nose in work and invention, I abused the people assigned to me, I left a mailing location with Novalin to try and hire her as an informant, I destroyed chimera with my experiments, trying to do crap that no sane Kithain would attmept, and I keep trying to be something else than what I am and I don’t know what that is to start with. I was a toy maker. Why didn’t I stay a toy maker?
I’m rambling. I was never good at writing shit. You probably won’t even read this. You’ll probably tear it up the moment you recognize the handwriting. Maybe it’s better that way.
Why the hell did you have to return the necklace?? It had nothing to do with the marriage! I gave it to you because I loved you! Didn’t you know that?? If you had simply said , “Spindle let’s postpone the wedding”, fine! That I could understand! Or at least it wouldn’t have shot cold iron through my hear!t But returning the Star? I just can’t understand. And why did you have to mention Travis?? If he had absolutely nothing to do with it, then why bring him up, please tell me!
God I miss you, Freida. I still love you. I don’t think I can stop loving you, even if you don’t love me. Is this what Flywheel lived with for a half centrury? Dreaming of a love long gone? I don’t think I can take it. I’d rather go back to being Issac than to keep going on without you. Would you even think of taking me back? Do you even think of me kindly at least on occasion.? Not that I’d blame you if you didn’t. Not that I’d blame you at all . I can only hope our friends... your friends... were there for you. I’m not sure I have the right to call anyone friend anymore
I am so sorry. I’m sorry for everything I didn’t say, I’m sorry for not understanding, I’m sorry for not knowing what to do and panicking. But sorry don’t fix the crapper, does it?
I know I’m asking the impossible, I know. I’m not even sure I could bring myself to even be seen on campus. But I would give everything up just to hear you laugh again, just to watch you work , just to be in the same room with you. The Bes Din, the work I’ve done, everything here in this shop... none of this shit is worth it without you.
I love you , Freida, and no matter what I don’t think that’s ever going to change on my part, no matter who or what I may become.
Zay Gesund,
Spindle
(412) 555-5555
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| Week 22 - January 26th, Monday early morning, Spindle's Room |
[11 Nov 2004|12:40am] |
"Spindle. Spindle." A thick pillow smashes down hard atop his sleeping form. "Wake up, asshole."
Spindle sits ups with a start. "Tripper? Wha- Oy, my head. What's wrong?" He looks to his left to Tipper sitting up in bed besides him, her lips twisted to give the impression of being somewhat irked.
"You were talking in your sleep. Again." She pulls the thick quilt and array of blankets up over her bare breasts. "You could at least dream about something interesting. Something other than that cunt you left behind." While she doesn't sound angry or unhappy, the Goblin's voice definitely carries the tone of one who is annoyed.
He rubs at his face as he tries to wake himself up a bit further. "Freida?"
Tripper clicks her teeth in aggravation, a habit she's picked up from him. "Yes, Freida. The Boggan bitch herself." Flopping back onto the pillows, she rolls slightly onto her right side to get a better look at him. "You still love her, don't you?"
Spindle says nothing, but stares into the darkness.
"I just don't get it." Tripper's voice is calm with hints of bewilderment around the edges. "One minute you're ready to turn the whole of Monadic Theory on it's dick, consequences be fucked, screwed, shit on and then damned, if it's lucky, and woe betide the brain-dead moron who gets in your way... And the next, you're moody as all hell, pining for some girl you only knew a few months." One hand moves to rest on his lower back in a gentle rub. "You've got a fucking portion of Nocker busybody bigwigs afraid of what you might brew up next, not because you've specialized in anything, but because you've cobbled shit together from bits and pieces of unrelated theories. They've given you assistants to scream your bloody head off at and a whore to bang as often as you want and however you want. Yet the moment you've got two nanoseconds to yourself, you're either staring off into nothingness or drooling like a Japanese businessman doing the bukakke to a teenage girl at some dumb-ass photo."
His head twitches to the left. "I'm just not sure who I am anymore, Tripper. I feel like I... could be anything from here. But I have no feaguing clue as to what."
She sighs in exasperation. "Hell, sixteen and you've hit mid-life crisis. Great." Tripper sits up again and wraps her arms around him. "You're damn lucky I like you, Spindle. I would have off'ed anyone else by now." She pulls hims close to her. "Yeah, you can be whoever you want from here. That options always fucking open to any pissant, I suppose. But you have to chose what it's going to be, Spindle. And as much as I want to, I can't tell you what to do."
"And for how long can I trust you, Gloria? I know it's not forever, but I wish to fucking God I at least knew for how long." There's a desolation in Spindle's voice, as if he knows the inevitable will come despite his knowing about it.
The pretty Goblin girl kisses his shoulder, then places her head against it. "For as long as you keep your part of the deal Spindle. You give me what I want and I give you what you want. Long term or short, doesn't matter to me." She sighs.
Leaning back into her arms, they both lie down again, his head pillowed on her breast. He says nothing more, but closes his eyes and relaxes with the person who might one day decide to kill him for fun.
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| Week 22 - January 25, Sunday Night - The Shop |
[04 Nov 2004|11:55pm] |
"You have it ready?" Spindle doesn't look towards his assistants as he finished stringing the fine silver wire across the top of the contraption.
Clatterchank seems to think forward with each heavy step. "Subject is secured, Master Spinde." The Golem holds a small chimera of a mouse, a tiny purple thing with a pink candy hearts for eyes. One palm over the other, his large fingers act as a cage. The chimera frets, scurrying back and forth in what little space there is in the Golem's hands.
Tipper sits on a nearby counter in her usual ragtag attire, her face rapt with bloodythirsty canticipation that would have done Caligula proud. She holds a small notebook and pencil. Derricks stands at the base of the stairs, his expression that of carefully guarded neutrality. "You still haven't told us what this thing does."
Spindle frowns at him. "Well, if you shut your fucking cakehole for six seconds, you'll see."
The device itself takes up most of the table. In a steel rectangular frame, a spiderweb of silver wires lead from one side to the other. At one end, a glass box containing a disc of bronze; a tiny scale dial sits below. The other has a similar container, this one with a plate of silver suspened about a small LED display. Between the two glass boxes, on the front side of the device, a panel with three toggel switches and a large black knob rests.
With one last check of the wires, Spindle walks over to his desk and whisks a cover off of a small metal cage. Inside, a white mouse, recently purchased from a nearby pet store, squeeks as it is startled. The Nocker opens the cage and removes the animal, carrying it gently to the far side of his creation. He flips open the top of the container with the silver disk and deposits the mouse within. He closes the lid gently and then examines the LED display. "Currently showing zero, Tripper." The Goblin girl snaps a bubble of rich blue from between her lips as she jots down the notation.
"Casey, put the little uzzard in the other side." Clatterchank steams forward, enclosing the chimera within the glass recepticle that has the bronze plate. He then lugs himself back towards Derricks to watch.
Spindle looks at the hands of the scale. "Okay, this one's got a magnitutde of point-eight-three." Straightening up, he claps his hands together in a brisk rub. "Excellent!" Whirling around to face his crew, his eyes seem to be lit with an odd madness. "Goggles, shitheads, goggles! If you wanna be blind, then do it the old fashioned way and wank off on your own time." As he speaks, he lowers a pair of thick green glasses over his own eyes. The others do likewise.
With a relish, he turns about again and reaches out long thin fingers to flip the toggle switches one by one. As each metal switch is flipped upwards, a familiar oscillating hum begins to fill the room. From deep within the device, a dim light starts to pulse in sequence with the rise and fall of the device's warble. Spindle drops his hand towards the large black tuner knob, but stops as small greenish hand gently covers his out of nowhere. Looking to his right, he sees Tripper has snuck up besides him unheard. He waits expectantly.
In a small voice of childish awe, she asks, "Can I do it?" The Goblin licks her lips as she stares almost hungrily at the two mice kept within the device.
Smiling graciously, Spindle retracts his own hand and steps back. "Of course." His voice is soft, almost kindly. "Now the slower you go, the better we'll be able to see the effects," he advises.
Without looking at him, Tripper rests her tiny fingertips on the dial and begins to turn. The light begins to brighten as she twists it ever so slowly clockwise. And two high pitched and crescendoing squeals become lost within the ever increasing thrum of the machine...
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| Week 21 - Jan 18, Sunday At Dawn, The Shop |
[27 Oct 2004|01:47am] |
Spindle looks over the blueprints again, then reads through some calculation in a notebook. It should work. It has to work. He looks up to see Derricks fiddling with another toy boat, this one only slightly smaller. Scowling, Spindle walks away from his desk to where the older of the Journeymen works. The silver-handled cane clacks on the floor as he walks.
“Derricks, you’re supposed to be building toys for children!” Spindle looks over the giant riverboat. It’s keel runs some four feet in legnth, and the paddlewheels look like they will be at least a foot in diameter. “You’re doing some great fucking work, but that’s the fourth oversized boat you’ve built! Move on already!”
The Journeyman Builder sighs as he lays down his tools. “Not a toymaker, Master Spindle. Don’t know how. I know boats and ships.”
Spindle’s teeth grind. “You get off you ass and TRY. Dive in and then learn from your mistakes! Grab a block of wood and just start carving! Don’t sit there like a baby in a shit drenched diaper and cry about it! Did I know jack about monadic structure when I started? No! I started to research and experiment on my frelling own! ”
Derricks lools up at him petulantly. “Is that how you built the Dispersal Unit, sir? You wanted to try and rip Glamour apart?” The bodyguard-assistant shakes his head. “Who really needs something like that?”
For all the honesty in that question, it hits a sore spot with Spindle. The scowl deepens. “That’s not how it started out, Derricks.” Spindle fights at the darkness he can feel welling up within the pit of his stomache. His fingers grip tightly about the shaft of the cane. “There’s drek I don’t care to talk about, and if that doesn’t satisfy you, you can hie your sorry, whiney-bitch ass back to whatever backwater scrapyard you came from! I’ll be more than happy to report that you couldn’t stay on and do whatever the frell the three of you assholes are supposed to do!”
The assistant lowers his head. “My apologies, Master Spindle. Just... you talk to Tripper about it.”
Spindle snorts. “Tripper and I don’t talk, Derricks. We don’t even make love. We fuck.” He turns his back and returns to his desk. “She and I reached an agreement. One I don’t care to make with you.”
“But... she’s whoring herself to you!”
For the briefest of moments, Spindle pauses as if considering the matter. Then he shrugs and sits with his back to Derricks. “And? Let’s face it, she’ll be the first to agree with you.” Reaching for his fountain pen, he starts to make notations in the notebook before him. “And I’m whoring myself to her. Sex for power. Power for sex.” There is something cold and assertive within his words, a hint of steel that anyone who once knew Spindle would not recognize. “It’s nice to pretend that she actually cares for me, but that’s all it is. Pretend. I think they used to call it taxi-dancing, or something like that.” Spindle starts to lose interest in the conversation, his mind starting to work around gematrical equations.
Derricks taps his foot. “You know she’ll betray you, Master Spindle! She’s a Goblin for fuck’s sake!” His voice takes on a begging, desperate quality that grates on the Bes Din’s nerves.
Swiveling about in his office chair, Spindle gives him a hard look. “Of course she’ll betray me. You think I’m a complete schmuck that I don’t know this? The second she thinks she can get something better than what I can give her, she’ll leave. She might even try and kill me, if she thinks she can get away with it. And the moment I have no use for her, I’ll drop her like a used condom. That’s ‘love’ for you, Derricks. Don’t let anyone tell you different.” The Master turns back to his desk and to his work. “Besides. In the end? Sex and power? Politics and love? It’s all just a feaguing distraction. The crafting is all that really matters. Even she understands that. Now get back to work!”
Derricks shivers silently as he regards the young Master. It is some time before he finally bows his head and returns to his project.
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| Week 20 - Jan 14, Early Wed Morning - The Shop |
[24 Oct 2004|01:52am] |
The cuckoo clock on the wall of the shop chirpes out the hour. Four AM. Spindle sighs, the picture of Freida on the desk before him. Closing his eyes, he fights the hollow feeling in his gut, trying to will himself into numbness. Congrats, Freida. You got to take my innocence twice. How’s that for a bargin? The depression slowly gives way to a teeth grinding anger. I should have done something about Travis from the outset. I knew he was trouble. Wired his doorknob to the lightsocket. Poisoned his beer. Lace his pot with arsenic. Something! And I can still do it. I can send him a gift. He’s got the sword, as agreed, the deal is done. I could just...
Spindle’s eyes fly open. Unaware of anything but the darkness wellin gup within him, Spindle’s left hand had balled tightly into a fist. Tension and fury like he’s never known makes the fist shake. Gritting his teeth, he forces his fingers apart as he flexes them. He places the hand flat on the desk besides the photo, concentrating on getting the muscle to relax. His forearm and hand slacken as he breathes deeply. Got to get a grip. I ‘ve got work to do, I can’t lose control. I can’t... God, I’m tired.
His shoulders suddenly tense as well without warning as a small pair of hands grip his shoulders from behind and slowly move down his chest. “You, Master Spindle, need to relax.” Tripper’s voice is close to his ear.
Shit! I never even heard her! Spindle doesn’t move, keeping his eyes forward. “Get your hands off of me, Tripper. You don’t touch me. Ever. Got it?” His voice lacks the force it once had.
Her hands pull back slightly to rest on his shoulders. “You’re too uptight, dickwad. You’re never going to forget the whore if you keep pining over her every fucking night like you’ve been.” Her fingertips start to dig into his shoulders, seeking out knots and kinks. Despite the slow burn of rage, Spindle finds himself sinking a little into his chair with each stroke of the muscle. His eyes close again. Her long, thin fingers work their magic on his overly tense back and shoulders. “Fuck,” Tripper mutters, “You are wound tight.”
Spindle lets her continue her shoulder rub, his anger ebbing away with each stroke. He sighs to himself. “Tripper... how can I trust you? You’re a coniving, smartmouthed, backstabbing, murdering slut.” He hates the plaintive tone in his voice.
“And I’ll kill you if I’m ordered to. Or if the mood suits me.” Her voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. “And you did hit me, asshole.” Spindle can feel her shrug as her thumbs press hard against a knot by his shoulderblade. “But what the fuck? I’m a Goblin. I’m used to it Hell, if you hadn’t smacked me about, I would’ve tried to kill you already. No use sticking with a weak boss, orders or no.”
“That doesn’t help really help with the whole massage thing,” he says dryly, “But the honesty is refreshing.” Spindle’s eyes open, but he doesn’t really see anything in front of him.
“Thank you. But it’s true.” Her hands lift away, and she moves to perch herself on the edge of his desk. The Goblin is only wearing an oversized white T-shirt. “But right now I’m not in the mood to kill you, Spindle. I’m in the mood to screw, fuck, lick, and suck. And you need something to take your mind off of things.” A petite foot, toenails painted a violent purple, rests on his knee gently. “Take it for what’s its worth,” she says softly, “A roll in the hay, a cock in the bush, a one night wanger-banger...”
Spindle says nothing, looks at nothing. I’m so tired. I just don’t want to deal with it anymore. I just...
Tripper drops her foot and stands. She holds out a hand to him, almost tenderly. “We can use each other well, Spindle.”
Finally, Spindle stands wearily, as if beaten. Taking her hand, lets himself be lead upstairs to his own bedroom.
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| Week 19 - Jan 8, Thursday evening, The Shop |
[24 Oct 2004|01:50am] |
Spindle rubs at his brow, his eyes closed. He holds the phone away from his ear for a moment. Derricks looks up from his work on a toy boat and smiles. Tripper, standing by the cash register, shakes her head as she chews her gum. Working on a reluctant radiator in the corner, Clatterchank seems to pay no attention to the shouting can be clearly heard through the phone’s earpiece.
Bring the phone back towards his mouth, Spindle tries again. “No. I’m not sending this in, Master Discora.” More shouting. “It’s a dirigible! You can’t place patent something you didn’t invent!” Even more shouting. “Look, you moron, let me spell it out for you. N-O, No! What?” Spindle taps his foot. “No. The fact that your dirigible is blue is NOT fucking innovative. Nor can you claim you invented it in a past life. Don’t bug me until you’ve gotten off your lazy ass and invented something worth sending up the line.” Spindle slams the handcradle down, scowling. “Schmuck.”
He leans back in the office chair and rubs his face again. He swivels in his chair towards his helpers. “Is it just me, or is everyone and his cum-drenched aunt trying to get schlock passed through me?”
Derrick looks up from the toy sailing ship. It’s far larger than is practical for a child to play with, but Spindle doesn’t doubt that every single rope, hatch and sail works as it would on a real ship. “Might be, Master Spindle. You being new. Testing the waters. Seeing if you got balls.”
Clatterchank lumbers away from the now working radiator. The front store windows start to fog as the warmth builds there. “Derricks is correct, Master Spindle. They are relying on your youth and inexperience to allow what their own local representatives would not.” The Golem cocks his head to one side. “Does this surprise you?”
“No, I guess not. Fucking applejohns.” Spindle reaches for the chimerical scroll in front of him. His thumb deftly breaks the seal, and he unrolls the parchment to read its contents. After only a few seconds, he snorts. “This has got to be a joke. This one is all the way from the Kingdom of Ice. Wants me to submit the plans for... get this... a cheese grater.”
The Golem blinks slowly. “I do not understand. Is it steampowered? Or perhaps deliver massquatities of grated dairy product?”
Spindle shakes his head. “Nooo.” He holds up the scroll. The design sketched there is a simple hand-held cheesegrater, one you could buy in any store.
In frustration, he waves his hand at the assorted jumble of scrolls, letters, applications and submissions on his desk. “Look at this shit. Two fucking weeks and something like one hundred patents rejected! Most of them aren’t even filled out correctly! There have only been two that I could in any good faith send up.” He looks over his shoulder towards Derricks. “And one of those was yours!”
Derricks goes back to rigging the lines for the for’topsails. “Liked the idea ciderpress, jelly-canner and doughnut-filler, attached to a ship's boiler myself.”
Spindle nods. “That was some pretty good shit, Derricks.” He turns to pick up another scroll. “Mistress Burghal’s washing machine that launders money was pretty gocking creative, too. I don’t want to know what the wrinkled old twat is doing with it, but it isn’t up to me to judge.”
Clatterchank blinks again. “I do not understand, Master Spindle. Is that not the point of your position? To judge by the guidelines?”
“He’s talking about moral and ethical claptrap, tin man, not patent applications.” Tripper pops another bubble with her gum, the violent pink of bursting out against the green of her hair and skin.
“Ah,” the Golem says. “I think I understand.” The sound of whirring gears can be heard from his vicinity. “No, I do no,” he adds after a few audible clicks. He looks up at the clock on the wall as it cuckoo's out the time. “Six in the evening. I must attend to the birds.” Clatterchank turns about and starts to lumber up the stairs.
“Feh. He’s for the birds, alright.” Tripper seems in a foul mood today. The few toys they’ve sold today where all benign. “Six o’clock, Master Spindle. Can I please work on my own goddamn stuff now?”
“Yeah, just don’t blow any shit up, bitch.” He waves her off. “Derricks, stop futzing for a bit and get dinner started.”
The older Nocker nods and, after setting a small clamp onto one of the spars, heads upstairs as well. Tripper kicks aside a throw rug to reveal a trapdoor to the basement. She slider down the ladder, the door closing automatically behind her.
The office is quiet for the moment. With the others gone, Spindle takes a key from around his neck and unlocks the top drawer of the desk. He eases it open silently. Reaching in, he pulls out a picture of short, curly haired girl. He squints to try and see the Boggan features, to pick out the vibrant joy of life he thought he knew.
God, I miss you, Freida. He lets his fingers trail across the photo in a slow caress. Do you think about me? Do you wonder where I am? Can you ever understand why I left? Spindle sighs to himself. Probably not. A slow tear trickles down his hollow cheek. I wouldn’t have been able to face you, or anyone at school, day after day after day... The pity, the looks, the whispers, the laughter. At least this way you end up looking like the good guy in all of this.
A darkness seems to well up within him, cold and comforting at the same time. He angrily brushes the tear away and tosses the photo back into the drawer. And you probably have him by now. I wonder how long it look before you ran to his arms. God! I was such a fool! As if there could ever be love for a Nocker. Spindle stands, and perhaps it’s but a trick of the light, but he seems to stand taller, straighter. There is work. That’s all there truly is for us. Everything else is either an illusion or a distraction. And nothing must stop the work. Nothing.
Spindle reaches for the silverhandled cane as he rises. He locks the desk drawer once more before he turns and walks towards his latest project. They thought the Monadic Dispersal Unit was something? What till they see this...
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| Week 18 - Monday morning, Dec 29, The Shop |
[24 Oct 2004|01:36am] |
“So what happened?”
Spindle doesn’t look up from the English book Rabbi Schwartzmann left for him. “What happened where?”
The pert little Goblin sighs from where she sits on the counter. Today, she’s in ripped jeans and a black sleeveless shirt meant for somewhat even smaller than her. “You were in a Freehold, noble friends all over the goddamn place, someone said something about you getting hitched to a munkchin, and all of the sudden, POOF! You drop it all for this tin-roofed shit shack? What gives?” Her fingers trail through the thick matt of curly green hair.
The crafter doesn’t look up. “None of your smegging business.”
“She dumped you, didn’t she?”
Spindle slowly lifts his head to give the Golbin girl a frosty stare.
Tripper shrugs. “Noticed your ring finger.” She waves a negligent hand towards the offending appendage. “Mark is pretty faint, but you can see you used to wear a ring there. You either wore it for a while or it was on the tight side.”
“Shouldn’t you be helping the others, Journeyman?”
“Derricks is off getting food, Master Spindle. Seeing as how he’s the only one of us old enough for a regular driver’s liscence, Master Spindle.” She uses his name and title as often as she can. “And Clatterchank is feeding those car-bombing winged-rats up on the roof.” She lies back on the counter in a paody of a sensual pose, one leg propped high on the cash register and the other swinging just above the floor. And Tripper is pretty, there’s no denying. One of those few of the Nocker-kith whose fae features works for her. “That leaves you and me, Master Spindle. Yours to do with as you see fit,” she sighs overdramatically, the back of one hand going to her brow.
“Then get your ass off the damn counter and sweep the shop.” Spindle goes back to his book, trying to remember the differences between un- and non- as prefixes. “You’re being more annoying than helpful, Tripper.”
“God, you’ve been moping about ever since we got here. It’s boring!” Tripper swings herself into an upright position, sticking her tongue out at the crafter. “I bet I could make you forget the bitch,” she says with a mock pout. “One night with me and your world will be forever changed. I promise!”
Spindle snaps the book shut, trying to contain his rage. He half stands, hands on the table, leaning forward. His tattered white shopcoat flares out behind him with the sudden movement. “Ruth’s holy tits, Tripper!” he growls angrily, “Are you a Goblin or an ass-munching Satyr?! Either way you’re really pissing me off! Now get to work! I want this shop cleaned!”
Hopping down off the counter, she shrugs as if the outburst was nothing. Reaching for the broom, she continues talking in conversational tones. “I like making things. I like violence. I like sex. I also like Troll dolls; something about the hair...” Tripper shrugs. “Derricks’ got a nice sized dick, but he’s got the blueballs for some mortal in Pittsburg. And Clatterchank says he wasn’t built with ‘that sort of thing in mind’.” The last is said mockinglly. The Goblin girl starts to sweep the shop slowly. “I could do worse than scoring someone with political ties. And we’re about the same age, physically at any rate.” Tripper falls silent.
Spindle continues to glower at her until he’ sure she’s working, the settles down into his chair again.
“I could always kill her for you.”
The Nocker’s head flies up to stare in horror at Tripper. She’s still sweeping, not even looking at him, but the words are said as casually as though she were offering Spindle a choice of drinks. “Or maybe just maim her, if you like. Easy-peasy.”
“NO!” Shaking the disbelief from his mind, he sits back in the chair and stares at her. “You weren’t just sent to keep an eye on me, where you?” The words are low, more of a statement than a question.
Tripper stops sweeping for a moment. She leans on the broom as she regards him saucily. “Now whatever makes you say that... Master Spindle? Some of the Dayan simply want to assure your cooperation, whatever it takes. Sex. Murder. Mayhem. Whatever. And like any crafter, I take pride in my work. I’m good at it.” She gives him a mischievious wink and returns her attention to the floor. “And I enjoy it.” Tripper says nothing more, but hums to herself as she continues to work her way towards the front of the shop, broom whisking across the floor.
A chill runs down Spindle’s spine. And for the first time since he can’t remember when, he prays with feeling. Mericful God in Heaven. What have I done?
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| Week 17 - Tuesday night, Dec 23rd, Flywheel's Shop |
[24 Oct 2004|01:30am] |
He peers about the shop. It seems somewhat neglected to him. A fine layer of dust coats the shelves and hardwood floor, and there is a slightly musty odor to the air. Spindle walks towards the back slowly, his eyes taking in the toys that sit everywhere, stand everywhere, hang everywhere. Reaching the counter towards the rear, he sets his toolboxes down. Behind him, he hears the other three enter the shop.
“Fuck, what a rustic piece of shit this place is,” he hears Tripper mutter.
Derricks shrugs. “Worse places. I’d take a crap here.”
The Golem, Clatterchank, says nothing, instead lugging the footlocker past the counter and to the base of the stairs that lead upwards.
“At any rate, Professor Fulminate said it’s all yours. More or less,” Tripper says. “Master Flywheel agreed, fuck knows why, to sign everything over to you in a trust fund. You get a small monthly stipend, taxes for this hellhole come straight out of the trust, and it’s been arranged that Rabbi What’s-His-Ass shows up as your legal guardian for all intents and purposes.” The Goblin girl snorts. “You even get the Studebaker.”
Spindle ignores them. The newest member of the Bes Din continues past the counter, past the stairs and into the workshop. Most of Flywheel’s tools are gone. He wouldn’t have left them behind, even in “retirement.” Stepping up to a work bench, Spindle lets his too long fingers trail lightly over the scratched and dented wood. Memories of lessons and lore being taught here flash through his mind, techniques knocked into his head by...
Turning to the side, Spindle looks at the space behind the counter. There, on a shelf beneath the ancient cash register, rests Flywheel’s silver handled cane. Clatterchank watches with glazed eyes as Spindle slowly steps back towards the counter and takes the cane in hand.
Why the frell did he leave it? Unless... some part of him knew he didn’t have long to live anyway...
Spindle shakes the thought from his head. He focuses in on his escort. “Alright, you did your jobs. Now get the fuck out.” Least I can do is move in upstairs in peace and quiet.
Tripper shakes her head. The over-ripe girl saunters over to him. “Oh, no, Master Spindle. We’re part of the package.” Her grin is more of a leer. “You see, the deal was for you to hand over the plans for your... What? Monadic Dispersal Unit? Whatever. You give over the goods to each of the Guilds at the same time, and you get your precious teacher a retirement position in the Schwartzwald... with you taking up his duties here.”
The newest Master in the Weapons Guild frowns. “And I did.” He permits a small smile. “After gaining patent on it, of course.” Only good for three years, but I can make a lot of money in three years. And find a harmless counter-agent. “So there is no need for you three dolts to hang about and clutter up the shop. Besides, I have GEDs to study for.”
From behind him, Clatterchank speaks up. The voice is reminscent of ballbearings rolling about in a tin can. “The Grand Bes Din has an intense interest in your work, Master Spindle. As such, they would see such knowledge protected.”
“Bodyguards and assistants,” Derricks chimes in. The big Nocker still holds both suitcases.
“Besides,” Tripper purrs, “We don’t want to go.” She stretches backwards, thrusting her chest forward. Spindle wrinkles his nose at the strong stench of sweat and babypowder that eminates from the Goblin.
Spindle glowers at the three. “Fine. The bedroom is mine. You plant your asses wherever they won’t be in my way.”
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| Week 17 - Tuesday afternoon, Dec 23rd, Spindle's room |
[15 Oct 2004|07:02pm] |
Spindle sits staring moodily out of the window. From there, he can see the house, it's exterior finished and it's roof completed. A light dusting of snow rests about. I should have known it was too good to be true. I really should have. He takes another long pull from his coffee mug. Mikal and Dain, both gone. Oliviah wouldn't even talk to me this year. Peri off with Tommy Lee. Ailan and Silia. Aidan and whatever the hell he's got going with Aki and Aya. Travis... He feels an anger start to well in him. If he has nothing to do with this, then why the FRELL did she bring him up? The rage gives way to a feeling of futility born of resignation. What's the point?
A knock at the door startles him. Rising, he opens it to find three figures waiting for him the hall. One is a hulking Nocker in thick leathers. The second is equal to the first in height and wider in girth; a dull glassy look seems to go right through Spindle, and the arms seem to hang rather loosely from their sockets. A strange mark seems tatoo'd into his forehead. Golem, Spindle thinks. The third person looks to be a Nocker as well, but is far shorter. A greenish tint covers her skin, and while pretty for a Nocker, there's something that seems oddly corrupted or overly cloying by her very presence.
"Spindle?" she says with a leer of pointed teeth. "Senior Journeyman Gloria Tripper of the Weapons Guild." With a wave at her companions, she adds, "Journeyman Derricks of the Builders. Casey Clatterchank. We're here as escort. The last minute changes you requested have been taken care of." She looks about the room, eyes focusing on the luggage: a footlocker, two toolboxes and two suitcases. "Have you said your goodbyes?" The golem lurches forward and hoists the footlocker up onto one shoulder with ease. The suitcases are taken by the other Nocker, leaving the toolboxes for Spindle.
"There aren't any to really say," he says flatly. Spindle looks back at the room. Tesla seems to stare down at him disapprovingly from above the desk. Save for a black shopcoat draped over the deskchair, Spindle's side of the room is otherwise as bare as when he first entered it in September.
"Nice coat," the green girl says with admiration. "Mind if I...?"
Spindle grimaces. "If you wish." With a delighted giggle that shivers his spine slightly, Tripper dons the blackshop coat, flapping in it like a child in her father's overcoat. She looks over her shoulder at the spiderweb and gear pattern on the back. "Niiiiice motif. You got a claim on it?"
"Yes."
"I'll trade you for it, skinny. Night of bouncy-bouncy, maybe? Tit for tat? Shit, your dick would be worth it." The golem says nothing, while Derricks snickers. Gloria admires herself in the full legnth mirror on the closet door.
So intent she is on looking at herself that she doesn't notice Spindle's hand as it decends and smashes her harshly to the floor. He looks down at her coldly. "You may have the coat, Journeyman. That is all. And you will address me as Master Spindle at all times, as is befitting your rank. Do you understand me, or are Golbin brains as slipshod as their smegging toys?"
Derricks and Clatterchank seem to draw themselves to attention, while Tripper picks herself up off of the floor. She scowls at her senior, but nods. "Yes, Master Spindle," she says acidly. "I see you are ready to assume the old fart's duties." She glances down at something partially hidden beneath the bed. "What's that, Master Spindle?"
He doesn't even look at it, instead hefting his toolboxes. "It's an empty Glamour battery, Journeyman. Are you coming, or do you plan on blowing us there by flapping your gums?"
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| Week 14, Sunday - Taking a break from the Party |
[21 Sep 2004|07:22pm] |
Spindle trudges up to his room, rubbing at his eyes. Peri is one hell of a friend, but no one warned me about the country music. Next thing, they would be singing about how the truck left, the wife won't start and the dog ran off with another man.
Unlocking his door, he enters and plops down into his desk chair. He looks at the corner of the room which holds his unfinished projects, and he sighs. Maybe... maybe if I can get rid of some of it...
He hauls himself to his feet and begins to drag out the various parts to the still. It's chimerical form matches the mundane shell almost perfectly; the bright shining copper, buffed to a glossy mirror finish, casts reflections of light from the desk lamp to dance about the room. Spindle reflect for a moment on how hard it was to attach the hotplate to the bottom of the unit as seamlessly as he did. The rest was easy. Unlike steel or silver, bronze or brass, chimerical copper was in plentiful supply: pennies from heaven, penny for your thoughts, penny candy, copper-top batteries, penny candy...
One step remained. Spindle opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the small whiskey bottle given to him by Tommy Lee a few weeks ago. The Glamour within the dross swirled around as he lightly rotated the bottle. Wish I had more to put into this, he thought, Get more bang for the buck in the long run. But... what can you do?
He hesitates for a moment, his eyes glancing to the batteries on the floor by his bed... Plenty of Glamour there, he muses. It would be simple enough to just- Spindle shakes the thought out of his head. Yeah. Simple and stupid. Better just do it and get it over with. But how to break it? Can't just pour it out, the Glamour has to be used right away. Break it and I'll end up slashing my hand all to hell. Shit. Only one way to do it.
Spindle cracks open the small bottle, and before he can think better of it, swigs the contents down in two or three sudden gulps. His throat burns. The bottle falls from stunned fingers. A sudden intoxication begins to fill him, although if it comes from the Glamour or the alcohol he can not tell. Gotta be the Glamour. More powerful dross than I thought. Booze shouldn't hit this fucking fast. Should it? Running out of time.
Lurching forward, he lays both hands on the still. The fresh rush of Glamour starts to move to his hands, flowing into the still. The Nocker closes his eyes as he works the Art of Infusion. The Glamour born of whiskey dreams fills the creation, bonding to the copper, real and chimerical. As the stuff of dreams flows from creator to creations, the drunkeness also flows from Nocker to still. The burning in his throat and the tearing in his eyes eases. As the last of the dross is expended, Spindle releases his grip and throws himself to the floor. A heavy sweat covers his skin. He lies there, panting.
Now then, he thinks, to kill a couple of birds with one stone.
(OOC: Art of Infusion, Toughen. Realm, Prop 4. Bunk, drinking the whiskey. Glamour, from TL's dross.)
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| Week 13, Thanksgiving Evening, Whiteoak |
[25 Aug 2004|01:13am] |
Spindle retreats back to his room, settling himself down at his desk. By the look of things, Dain had already left for the holiday.
Hands in face, he takes a deep breath. God's wrinkled raisins, I want a cup of coffee. He looks under his desk to see the bags Freida had brought him, sitting next to the coffee pot. I haven't had a cup since last night. Sitting back, his gaze lifts to stare out the window. Just... need a minute to collect myself. Just a minute or two before I go back to Blackwillow and the feast and all the people... Fuck, my brain hurts!
Spindle moves to the bed, sitting back. Not trusting himself, he sets the alarm clock to go off in a few minutes, just in case. Then he closes his eyes to escape the migraine and the shakes and the exhaustion.
( And Spindle Dreams... )
Spindle sits bolt upright in his bed, the alarm beeping harshly again his ears. He can feel his heart beating wildly, and it is several minutes before his pulse begins to slow and the sweat begins to fade. He glances at the alarm clock. He has only been asleep for less than 15 minutes.
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| Wed, Nov 12 (Week 11) - Spindle & Dain's Room in the evening |
[16 Jul 2004|01:20am] |
Spindle leans back and looks at his handiwork. Travis's party wheel sits before him on the desk. A good 2' in diameter, the wooden circle hangs from its center on an A-frame stand. The letters of each pie-piece have been woodburned in and painted in gaudy "I'm-over-here-you-idiot" colors. The wheel had taken just about the 2 hours he thought it would, although somehow "Spinner's Choice" had ended up "Spin's Choice."
The Nocker sighs. "Never perfect," he mutters sadly to himself.
He turns to regard the other projects spread out neatly upon the bed. Three wooden dolls, simple thing, lay there unclothed. A pile of buzzer wheels and whirligig sticks, painted brightly as well, finish drying their varnishes on several sheets of newspaper. By the pillow, a small collection of wooden whistles and flutes are stacked, half finished. The opposite end has several spherical objects, which might well end up being yo-yos at some point. Crowning Spindle's pillow, a score of hand carved dredles flanked by two braces of Jacob's ladders. Simple items for the most part, toys easily fashioned between classes or on the RoVan by his young but experienced hands during the past two months.
"Not enough," he grunts to himself.
Spindle pauses in his assessment long enough to let his eyes drift over his suit. The dance is this weekend. I'm not going to look as good as any of the other guys anyway, he shrugs to himself. Then his attention returns to the stockpile of toys, and he contemplates what else to add to it.
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| Week 6, Monday (10/6), Whiteoak, a little before Sunset |
[11 Jun 2004|02:30am] |
Spindle puts the sword away in his closet, and sits back on the bed for a moment. I only hope Ailan knows what he's doing. Something's got him tied in knots. He was talking to that bugger Ash last. Maybe I should... He lets the thought trail off. With a shake of the head, he dismisses the notion. Ailan, Aidan, me... God knows how many sleep-screwed nights we spent in the common room. Never once did we pry into each other's lives, damned if I'm going to start now.
"Stupid fuck," Spindle mutters affectionately, "Damn straight he owes me one if he expects me to tell Lord He-" Spindle crashes back onto the bed. Hands clasped to his face, he begins to swear as only a Nocker truly can. "Merbkin fargin' mesheghena, crackheaded, bedizened phallalgia, scaurous, thrimmeling anorchus!"
Spindle doubted Lord Henri had ever forgiven the Nocker for the upsets he had caused in last year's Intermediate Cantrip class. The Eiluned was a rather strict traditionalist, and Spindle's more... inventive... bunks tended to irk the noble Lord. Especially since they had all worked. Not my fault he never considered using Corel Draw for a Chicanery bunk. Spindle also strongly expected a good deal of the tension came from the fact that Spindle was a commoner, but he never dared voice that aloud.
Think I'lll steal a kiss from Freida before I go tell Henri he's got to take care of those blighted birds. Some sweet to lessen the bitter.
He takes a glance out the window and notes the lowering sun. First thing's first.
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| Early Sunday morning, Week 5, WhiteOak (Sept 28) |
[04 Jun 2004|07:22pm] |
Breakfast? Spindle glances over at his desk clock. Damn. Cafeteria isn't open for another freaking hour. Lazy slacklobs. Spindle glances over at the remains of the carrots and honnied apples he had eaten late last night. Traditional, I suppose, for Rosh Hashanah, but not very filling.
Leaning back in his desk chair, Spindle continues to whittle at the small block of rosewood. The light of dawn comes in through the open window, accompanied by the sound of mourning doves and crows. I could make this out of copper sheets and bronze welding rods a lot easier, but I need the practice on working with wood. The slivers of wood scatter themselves across the half finshed essay. It had started out as one of his English assignments, a review of Poe's "The Angel of the Odd", but somewhere along the line it had morphed into a comparison of the tale to Plato's concept of an ideal world, and from there into a discourse on nocker freeholds. It would probably be an excellent paper if he could a) figure out which class he could use it for and b) get around to finishing it.
I wonder if Freida's awake yet? 6:23 am. Hmmm... no, doubtful. Maybe she'd like to go to breakfast with me? Spindle frowns for a moment, an expression that often looks more natural on a Nocker than smiling. The knife ceases, as Spindle thinks.
She keeps asking about nightmares... Ailan and Aidan, I know, they've had night terrors since I've known them, probably longer. Hell, if it wasn't for all of those midnight meetings last year I probably wouldn't ever have know what good guys those beanpoles are.
Setting down the knife, he leans forward and grabs his coffee mug. The coffee has gone cold, but the drink wets his throat. After a moment, he stands and heads over to the bookcase. He pulls out his books and notes from Chimerical Physics, along with a worn leather bound journal from his days as an Apprentice. Dropping them onto his desk, he clears the wood shavings into the trash and sets aside his homework. As the sun rises, Spindle begins to compare various sections of the notes. And he writes...
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| Thursday afternoon, 3rd week, School's Workshop |
[14 May 2004|04:18am] |
The sound of the hammer striking cherry hot steel fills the workshop. Sparks fly out from the anvil with each ringing strike.
Spindle does his best to put the events of the night before out of his head. It hadn't been an easy night by far, and the idea that some things could just slip under the door in the middle of the night had unsettled him. His gift for Frieda was nearly done, but he found himself cursing those imperfect wooden eyes. He still had to pick up the jacket for Mikal, and had so far avoided Frieda until he could complete her present's final assembly. Classes seemed to drag out forever today, save Advanced Chimerical Physics, which blew by all too quickly for his liking. His head had been cluttered with the same repeating thoughts, battling for space within his skull in an endless war for completion.
... hope she'll like it... why do they all have to be so damn beautiful... Mikal was in a better mood at breakfast, good friend... cocky hircine bastards, just shut the hell up... never make Crafter at this rate, be a Journeyman forever... ACP is really farking cool though... build wonders the likes of which they'll never... why do I keep thinking she... just a customer... me from a troll... lucked out with Dain as a roommate... only God can create perfection, is that how... Master Flywheel has done more for me... parents just dull and boring, still love... but this is what I am and this is what I do and FUCK the rest... one's touched me in a long time, it was nice... hope she'll like it...
Work was his escape from all of the confusing emotions and feelings. The hammer beat down in a timeless rythmn that echoed through the ages. Dreams and fears, nightmares and hopes, all gave way to the will to build, the need to create, that drive found in every nocker's black soul and twisted body.
Sometimes, it's best to just surrender to the Dreaming and let it do the building.
Spindle forges. His mind was mercifully empty of all else now , focused only on fulfilling the nocker's nature.
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| Friday night, just after sunset - second week |
[10 May 2004|12:26am] |
The candles are burning down, the room has been cleaned, the lights turned on, and most importantly, the coffee for tomorrow has been made and poured into a thermos. His radio is tuned in to some classical station, instumentals unspoiled by the unit's language barrier, and it rewards him by softly playing Mozart. The room he has for himself at the moment, Dain most likely being off at the party. Spindle trusts Peri and the others won't be offended. Large gatherings of rowdy noisy people with loud modern music just weren't his thing. Granted, the possibility did exist of seeing several people in various stages of undress (Peri, Silias, Freida, Aidan's sister, that cute Japanese girl, either of those two female satyrs...), but he'd made enough of a fool of himself earlier in Frieda's room.
All in all, not a bad flaming week! he thinks to himself with satisfaction. Got into Advanced Chimerical Physics (which means I get to sleep in a little later on Tuesdays and Thursdays), Ailan's box seems to have been a hit even if I didn't think it was all that good, Mikal's gift should be taken care of soon, first drafts done for Peri's and Aidan's, and my new Glamour Detector is really bitchin'! Just need a way to get a Fubar into it. Spindle frowns to himself as he watches the candles burn out. Stupid sounding name though. I think "Glamour Gauge" has a better ring to it.
It does come to mind that he nearly hurt himself badly this week. Between schoolwork, Ailan's box, the all-nighters and being sick from too much coffee with too little sleep and food, Spindle had pushed himself to far too hard, too fast. At the moment, he knows he contains but the barest threads of Glamour in his seeming, that his fae self could easily slip away if he wasn't careful. He violently thrusts such thoughts away, refusing to let his good mood be spoiled by that grim fact.
He makes sure the candles are out, shrugs into his shopcoat, and slips out the door. A nice slow walk through the long shadows around campus. Maybe no one would want to touch me in bed, he laughs to himself in wry humor, but NO ONE can even come close to touching me in the shop, dammit! The melody to "Major Yeates' Fancy" escapes his lips as he whistles his way merrily into the twilight.
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| Tuesday night/Wednesday morning, second week of school |
[05 May 2004|02:51am] |
Spindle leans heavily against the edge of his desk, the sweat dropping down his face. A shaky hand reaches out for the coffee mug, long gone cold. A quick swig to steady his nerves while he catches his breath. What was it? Four, five o'clock in the morning? His eyes are too bleary to read the dial of his battered and abused alarm clock. The Glamour was there now, tingling at his finger tips, awaiting his commands, that wild creative miasma born of Dreams.
And this is the smegging easy part! he thinks. At least he doesn't need the shop for this one, although hollowing out the wood took a hell of a lot of work. Damn good thing the dorm seemed to have thick walls: no one had complained about either the music or the pounding. But any such crafting took it's toll, and the bunk had left his throat and lips sore and aching. Did I have to hum the whole fucking thing? Yeah... I guess I did. And why am I doing this again? Because a friend needed something, even if he hadn't asked for it. Because everything Spindle's mentor had taught him told him that this was the right thing to do for a good person, no matter how small. Next to the sketches and notes for this creation are laid out similar plans for a new guitar case for Mikal.
Reaching out, the young nocker's still shaking hands gently felt the grains of the wood. Now, THIS is the hard part... Slowly, humming the last few bars, he pushes the Glamour into his creation, through the grains of the oak, into the heartwood itself. He can feel parts of himself slip into it, the parts gathered from his dreams and the dreams of those mortals he had encountered.
...look, Mommy, butterflies! Butterflies...She said yes! I tell you, I'm gonna get her a dozen roses...driving down the backhills of Butler County, doing 80 under a summer's night sky...
The last of the summoned Glamour pours itself out of the nocker and into the box. As the warmth of the dreams leaves his fae seeming, Spindle feels colder, less alive. His room spins slightly as Spindle tries to collect his thoughts. Still have to inspect it... find the flaw.. always a flaw... Flywheel... only God can create perfection... was he right? He grins in anticipation of the look Ailan would have when he saw his new "mouse" box. He then topples over, exhausted.
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