Lightnews — Scholar-powered news

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Hepatitis sucks. All I want to do is sleep. And I don't like being yellow. BOO. Hoping to have a swift recovery, which means only a few months instead of years of debilitation.

I have so far managed to avoid getting checked into hospital.

I have expressed my feelings in Elden Ring macro form.

Boss health bar labelled "Real Life Health Nonsense, Vanquisher of Productivity". Hepatitis sucks.

January 21, 2025 at 2:48 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Got my PC setup more favourably with my living arrangements -- i.e. adjacent my bed. I was able to draw again for the first time in 6 months! Took about an hour. Happy with it—I was getting that antsy 'are my skills quietly rotting though' anxiety.

ClipStudio. About an hour.

December 28, 2024 at 8:35 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Juraira is helped to eat while she nurses baby Nameless, & has intrusive thoughts about boys.

Word is 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦. Tricky to suggest severity of her condition 𝘢𝘯𝘥 the unnatural recovery rate, so she's caught up in sensual impressions in the moment & panics later on. #WIPsnips #BrightConstant #amwriting

WIPsnip v. TRUNCATED:

She focused on the boys. They were at least pleasant enough company.
She expected both were shy by nature. Perhaps they thought much alike, or had the same sort of attention—they exchanged particular observations, like others might exchange curious objects. Manushir described a crocus meadow he saw in the mountains, at length but charmingly so, his hands making shapes in the air, his eyes brightening as Bayar smiled & laughed in response. She saw the flush of cheeks, the swaying of shoulders & shuddering of laughs, lips like rose petals, youthful skin shining with a porcelain grain. Bayar wore a lotion she could smell sweet myrrh in, over his sweat & breath & the oils of his skin & hair.
Their liveliness was pleasing, like watching light play over the surface & substance of coloured glass & cut gems, over finely-worked silver & gold. She could see the pulse in Manushir’s neck, where his collar, stretched & slackened by sweat & wear, had sagged aside.
She wanted a lover, someone whose throat she could press her lips against, her teeth, someone she could smell & taste & touch.
“Are you hungry, Auntie?” he asked.
The boy was quiet & gentle, attentive—they both were, Bayar slipping his arm under hers when he saw her strength failing, holding her & the baby both up, his breath warm on the back of her neck, making her shiver.
“Apa said you should have the tablets for new mothers,” Manushir said. He tore the corner off a paper packet, & shook out some manner of pressed dry medicine. He gave it to her while he went for food, & Bayar took more of the weight of the baby.
He returned & took the tablet back & broke it up with a few whacks of the mortar. He had a large spoonful of broth ready to wash the pieces down.
“Here, it’s horribly bitter,” Manushir said, & he scooped more soup for her.
His eyes were like glittering emeralds as they passed over her face, or ship lanterns in the dark.
“Aren’t you a rose of a boy?” Juraira murmured. “The pair of you.”

December 18, 2024 at 4:30 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Juraira wakes up after several days unconscious due to seizure, to find an improvised shrine, & one of her courtiers waiting for her to wake up.

Today's word is 'approach'. Been wiped right out for a week. Edits, research, & planning going very, very slowly.

#BrightConstant #WIPsnips #amwriting

WIPsnip for Dec 17, truncated:

When she emerged from the curtains, dry rose petals crunched under her bare foot.
The gimbal lamps had new shades on them, but they still picked out the gleam on the rims of offering bowls and toasting cups left out on a lacquered board. The board had been painted with flowers, mostly lush, stylised tulips with streaked petals.
Dried petals had been scattered all over the board and the carpets around it, many handfuls. There were many small cakes on blue and white porcelain plates, and dewy, thawing oranges.
The scent of fine liquor wafted from the cups. Milk liquor she knew at once, and her nose wrinkled. Others were fruity, musky, smelling of herbs like wormwood, or unfamiliar entirely.
“Sis!”
Alalei sat on her bed. She had a paper ball in hand, but set it aside and approached Juraira.
“How are you?” she asked.
She fidgeted with her hands, the muscles in her neck raised by the tension in her shoulders.
“Are you afraid?” Juraira asked.
“He was here…!” Alalei whispered.
“Saikhan?” Juraira asked.
“I saw him— everyone saw him!” she breathed. “He was here, he spoke to me, Sis…! Sis, he was so big! He filled the whole ger! He was like a big bank of snow, and his eyes were like the sky! Big, like-like-like—”
She searched for a term, pressing her lips and frowning. It eluded her.
“What did he say to you?” Juraira asked.
The colour of Alalei’s eyes was so like the eyes of the golden eagle Juraira had kept with her mother, the tiny movements so lively, dancing. It was not delight, but awe, that made tears slip down her cheeks. They lay on her face like rock crystal cabochons, the grain of her skin lustrous like shining silk underlaid with a hint of ruby blood. Her lips trembled. Her breath fluttered through her nose.
Every animating movement was a ray of fire in a faceted diamond.
Juraira put her arms around Alalei, and her human warmth seemed to melt into Juraira’s body.

December 17, 2024 at 6:40 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Manushir leads Juraira & Salvi in a session of the 'prince's game', but both are used to more adversarial games. Manushir is more interested in fun & story.

My roommate & I worked out a lineage for TTRPGs in setting. 🤣 The prince's game is basically a political war game.

#WIPsnips #BrightConstant

WIPsnip for Dec 12 2024 truncated:

Juraira played the part of a pari sorceress, and Salvi a highland mercenary with a streak of div lineage and six dogs.
“Tahmine will whip the man with her crop and call him a liar and a horse thief,” Salvi said. “And her dogs will start growling.”
“For disrespect?” Juraira asked.
“It’s her div lineage,” Salvi said.
“Paniz will try to be gracious and suggest the man reconsider his response,” Juraira said. “Once Tahmine stops beating him.”
“All right, it works,” he said. “Because Tahmine has six growling dogs, and the man is not drunk enough to lose his fear of death.”
“I didn’t even mention my oil flasks yet,” Salvi said.
Manushir's eyes rolled heavenward and he half-grumbled, half-sighed.
In short order, the man confessed to finding a cave system he was using to smuggle goods and Salvi had Tahmine demand he show them. Paniz spotted secret marks on the cave wall and heard movement, and Juraira and Salvi spent about ten minutes debating whether to lose the element of surprise but have the benefit of torches, or attempt to retain the element of surprise.
“Light a second torch,” Salvi suggested. “Then you can swing one of them if needed.”
“And you are the one in armour, do you mean to send the waif of a sorceress out first?” Juraira asked.
Demna plucked some eerie strings.
Manushir sighed.
“The smuggler takes the torch and walks ahead,” he said.
“Are we being troublesome?” Juraira asked, trying to suppress a smirk.
“I think you don’t trust me yet,” Manushir said.
“We learned to play a game like this,” Juraira said.
“I did as well,” Salvi said. “The prince’s game.”
“You always presume someone is lying and out to get you,” Juraira said. “Often your top vazir.”
“Well, that’s no fun at all,” Manushir objected.
“It’s meant to make you better at leadership,” Juraira said. “It’s only fun enough to keep people playing.”
“Well, I like fun games,” Manushir said.

December 12, 2024 at 10:49 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Juraira experiences a powerful epileptic seizure triggered by trying to use her strange insight & recalls a moment from her teenage years.

Tricky to describe, but the neurology of seizure, hallucination, & dream have always fascinated me.

#WIPsnips #BrightConstant #writesky

WIPsnip for Dec 11 2024 slightly truncated:

Tiny stars like salt grains glimmered in her vision.
She saw she was wearing an embroidered shirt—Yeshei had used her sacred script again, made little calligraphic forms around the neck and over the heart, in with the yellow flowers of malaigal, black falcons diving, the gold-and-black fish of Mara, all made with as few stitches as possible, no larger than an inch and scattered all over the white linen shirt.
She looked at Vilmantas, who resolved in her vision.
At forty-seven, he looked much younger than that, especially with his light build and straight back. His Visna features stood out—his fair skin, his diamond-shaped face narrowing from cheekbones to chin. The hair from his crown tumbled to his shoulder in broad curls, the rest brushy and red like a fox’s fur, and the threading of grey made it look lighter and blonder overall. His moustache was broad but neat, with catlike curling whiskers, his chin clean-shaven. His hazel eyes were that triangular shape, large and hooded under his whiskery red eyebrows.
His embroidered shirt was sharp and clear in her mind, a finer white linen than Juraira’s own, with a keyhole neckline and sleeves pushed up on his forearms. It was covered in a particularly luxurious rendition of the branches of the Tree of the World around the neckline, growing up from his heart, its branches full of flowers and stars, its roots with skulls and coiling rivers, its trunk with birds and snakes. His broad cuffs were pushed up, covered in geometric little white mallows, the dense white linen of the rest dotted with tiny, perfect flowers in coloured threads.
The flowers swam in her vision, so he looked like the Prince of Spring in his blooming cloak.
Then rosemary came to her nose, and oils of geranium and lemongrass—insect repellent.
Ganzey stood in the doorway behind her; he passed into her vision from the periphery as if her head was turned on a screw.
A sharp pressure built behind her eyes.

December 11, 2024 at 10:46 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Juraira's family is considered cursed due to unusual and unlucky deaths.

Of 2 wives, 9 siblings, 4 children, 1 son-in-law, & 2 grandchildren, only she, her father, and 1 aunt survive.

Juraira was guarded against bad luck & risk w/ stifling caution unto paranoia.

#decemberworldbuilders #amwriting

December Worldbuilder prompt 10: main character's relationship with family

December 10, 2024 at 9:23 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Fruit is hard to get in winter without modern agriculture, so how does Golshan's kitchen suck up to a princess who loves fruit? Preserved fruit pulp/juice jellies (like mizu manju).

I wish mightily I had strawberry red bean mochi right now.

#WIPsnips #BrightConstant

WIPsnip for Dec 9 2024:

Merydi poured her a cup of icy, sweet red sherbet. It was vivid crimson in colour, tasting of plums and cherries, a little lemon and cinnamon, and a hint of cloves. Sweetened with sugar, it brought some lightness and wakefulness to her body.
She watched Kokoro, looking for any cues in her. She did genuinely enjoy herself when performing, Juraira knew that in her gut, and she liked to make people happy. Kokoro also paid special attention to Alalei. Ushinber focused on playing with her, his blue eyes tracking nothing in the middle distance.
Once the song was over, Juraira led the applause and Kokoro smiled and gave a little bow. Alalei poured her some sherbet as she returned to her seat. She gulped it.
“Not too fast,” Juraira cautioned. “You’ll get a headache.”
Kokoro winced and put the cup down, holding her temple. Merydi poured her some tea.
“Drink this quickly instead,” Merydi said. “It’s only lukewarm, it won’t hurt you.”
Kokoro did as she was told, draining the tea. She squinted and reeled as the pain slowly eased, her hand against her eye.
“Ahh, it’s like someone drove a nail into my head!” Kokoro said.
“Didn’t you have ice on the boat?” Merydi asked.
“We had sherbet but it wasn’t very cold,” Kokoro said. “The other girls didn’t like it very cold, they had sensitive teeth.”
“You can drink it cold, but you have to sip it,” Merydi said. “Gulping it will give you the icy nail.”
Kokoro blinked and let her hand down, squinting, one eye half shut and a grimace on her face.
“Did we wake you, Farrah?” Kokoro asked.
“No, I smelled that bread,” Juraira said. “And the grilled vegetables. I am but a mortal woman."

December 10, 2024 at 5:50 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Laws aren't really on the books due to rates of infant mortality & pregnancy loss, & limited medicine—i.e. it's academic. Typically, law forbids causing pregnancy loss in someone who didn't seek it. Knowledge of abortifacients is fairly widespread. #decemberworldbuilders #writingcommunity

#DecemberWorldbuilders prompt for Dec 9: reproductive laws/rights

December 9, 2024 at 9:07 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

#DecemberWorldbuilders has a snippet about family today.

I decided to use the first actual text in the book, a quote. I often use 2 or more, because I like the additional layers of meaning you can get out of relating them to their chapters.

Anyone have thoughts on #epigraphs?

#BrightConstant

Snippet and first text of the book, the epigraph:

"The family was unlucky."
—Suyluquz Vazir, from The Cannibal Cup

#DecemberWorldbuilders prompt for week 2, Dec 8, 'family'

December 8, 2024 at 6:40 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Fugitive junior judge Manushir doesn't have a lot of friends but towering lady knight Salvi is one of them. As a knight, she expresses her affection through flowery words and actions, and also violence.

No spoons atm.

#WIPsnips #BrightConstant

WIPsnip Dec 8 '24 truncated:

“Why do I get a maid?” Manushir asked. “I couldn’t qualify as a maid!”
“Something about being the ward of an important person,” Merydi said. “It’s probably only one because you’re a Poppy by education and would find it strange.”
“It is strange!” he insisted, putting the pot on the table.
“I expect Alalei’s maids will also look after you as needed,” Merydi said.
“I don’t need—” he began, but he sighed and gave up, lying on the floor with a groan like he’d been fatally struck by an arrow.
Uruslan arrived with Salvi, an opaque bottle in his hand. Salvi looked nervous. Manushir noticed her and stood up.
“You’re staying with us?” he asked.
Uruslan smiled.
“Her interfering uncle,” Uruslan said, “might have hinted to the noyan that he ought to convince her she’ll never have a chance like this again in her life if she returns to Yaghana now.”
Manushir presented himself and thrust his arms out to the sides, asking permission. Salvi smiled and squeezed him tightly in her arms.
“I’m glad,” Manushir said, and he released her.
Salvi bowed.
“Your servant is pleased to wait upon you for however long we have together,” Salvi said.
“No gallant foolishness!” he said, but he grinned and laughed.
Salvi hooked her arm around his knees and hoisted him over her shoulder, standing up with the boy draped like a rug.
“All right, but never tell a knight ‘no gallant foolishness,’” Salvi scolded, tickling behind his knees so he squealed. “Precious little distinguishes us from bandits as it is. You might as well take the collar off completely and say ‘indulge all your wicked appetites on whomever you please’!”
“Wicked appetites like boy tickling, you div’s brood!” Manushir protested, but he laughed when she tickled him again. “Gallantry! Gallantry! I want the gallantry back!”
Salvi put him back on his feet, and even dusted him off for effect.
“Of course, little sir,” Salvi said, as if she hadn’t just manhandled him.
“You monster,” Manushir said, though he grinned.

December 8, 2024 at 10:46 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Astrology has not separated from astronomy yet. Astrology is the means by which times and dates are kept straight, and by which people navigate deserts and seas.

The constellations are different, and the stars are names differently. For example, the stella polaris is called Mayukha, 'the nail.'

#DecemberWorldbuilders prompts hosted by Kira of the Wind

Week 1: Science
7. Astronomy or astrology

December 8, 2024 at 5:36 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

A nine foot, jet black stranger kind disguised as a court lady has some thoughts on attaining compliance from people. Notably, throwing scofflaws off a particular tower.

I used 'quarrelsome' because none of my options with 'argue' were interesting at all.

#BrightConstant #WIPsnips

WIPsnip for Dec 7 2024:

“Everyone on the island fears the Old Woman in a quarrelsome mood,” the Old Woman said. “Try to bribe me with cakes left out at night, though dogs mostly eat them.”
“What do you do in a quarrelsome mood, that they fear you so?” Juraira asked.
“I climb to the top of the tallest tower on Rigo,” the Old Woman said, “with whomever has angered me, and hurl them into the sea. Or, I suppose, I allow them to die of exposure on my rock.”
“What angers you?” Juraira asked.
“When people do not obey the sensible rules,” the Old Woman said. “In earlier times, I was a story to most people. Then the birds died, and there were no eggs at the roosts. And some fools decided that was a perfect time to have a little war between their clans. They fought in the streets, with rocks and knives and clubs. They sent slaves against each other.”
“First the oldest and the youngest died, then the healthy young men and women?” Juraira asked. “And anyone injured in the fighting.”
It was the pattern—the paranoia about such altercations had increased the cost of public peace, and with outbreaks among the men necessitated hiring, training, and quartering women guards.
“They sought glory, and found death,” the Old Woman said. “Packed like barrels in a hold. The island’s children blamed it on the Sedo.”
“Why?” Juraira asked.
“Because they couldn’t bear to blame their direct elders,” the Old Woman said. “And certainly not the birds who fed them so well for so long.”
“What did the adults say it was?” Juraira asked.
“A punishment for foolishness,” the Old Woman said. “A fool’s ges. The older children lived, the prudent adults who avoided the conflict, the elderly who could make remedies but were not constantly called to the side of the ill on their deathbeds.”
“Did they blame you?” Juraira asked.
“No,” the Old Woman said. “But I gave them certain laws and enforced them. I walk among them. Sometimes I merely break the neck.”

December 7, 2024 at 1:04 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

AIs ignore prompts b/c they work on associations.

Blond ppl tend to be white in photos, so a blond character will probably be lightened.

Expect to deal with lipstick & eyeshadow always.

I had to manually darken Alalei & suggest sun-bleaching of her hair—she's been walking for a month prior.

AI art, a blond interracial woman in a red robe/coat next to some flowers.

AI art with some corrections. Blond woman has sun-bleaching of her hair and sun-tanning of her skin, also with muted lipstick.

December 7, 2024 at 6:15 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Prettification problems.

Beauty standards genericize faces. Skin is dewy & perfect. Makeup is always there.

Lower faces trend small. In adults, this should be ~1/3 of the face. I modified the output, sapped lip colour to suggest illness, lightened eyes, tweaked jaw proportions. Still too pretty.

AI art output. A Eurasian woman with grey eyes and black hair, in a blue coat with blue fur because reasons.

AI art with tweaks to lighten the eyes, remove colour from the lips, suggest dark circles, and adjust the jaw to look more substantial.

December 7, 2024 at 6:07 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Merydi has been likened to Bones McCoy in temperament.

Facial expressions tend to be hit or miss. Did not trust it to handle Merydi's emotional range.

Having spent ten years learning about likeness & expression, I can usually do better with a liquefy tool & a bit of time. So dull surprise it is.

AI generated image of Merydi, with following quote:

“People swear all kinds of oaths,” Juraira said. “Keeping it in mind isn’t the worst thing, and occasional compromise won’t kill me.”
Merydi bent to look Juraira in the eye.
“I will tell them to find a particularly ugly he-goat and get fucked by him,” Merydi said.
Juraira failed to suppress a smile.

December 7, 2024 at 5:08 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Human skin naturally varies in intensity & distribution of pigment, often having visible 'bands'. Compare Senait Gidey, for example.

Merydi's pigmentation is pretty uniform because most images of women are retouched. I wanted her lips to be more like Ms Gidey's. AI gave her lipstick. 🤣

December 7, 2024 at 4:37 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Juraira & Golshan discuss the ethical approach in a manual Juraira studied about sex & love.

Not shown here: the many boring theological essay questions Juraira had to answer on said manual.

Research was surprisingly boring, but Perfumed Garden yielded some OK euphemisms.

#BrightConstant #WIPsnip

WIPsnip for Dec 6 2024:

“ ‘It is not love nor the art of love,’” Juraira recited, “ ‘if it is done without sympathy and mindfulness, and none of its knowledge any more than wickedness and sin if used by the unjust against the kernel of grace in all of Creation.’”
Golshan was quiet for a moment. He took her hand off his cheek and put it against his chest.
“Maybe,” he said.
“I can tell you the second half if you want,” Juraira said.
“What’s the second half?” Golshan asked.
“ ‘The surgeon’s knife is not the same as the robber’s,’” Juraira said, “ ‘though either might pierce a boil, only one is trying to do good—the surgeon washes the wound with rosewater, and the robber washes the knife in a gutter.’”
Golshan grimaced.
“I prefer the first half, I admit,” he said. “What does it say about seducing such a person?”
“The sinned-against lover is not to be denied love, but not to be hurried either, and the body and spirit must be sound for the act,” Juraira said. “If your hand or eye raises a flinch from your lover’s nerves, then you shall touch them instead with your voice. You shall be soft as the feathers on the dove, and begin with the indirect and the gentle.
“ ‘Thy hand shall do no evil work that bringest suffering unto Creation.’”
Golshan’s expression revealed only some tension of his mouth and the white of his eyes. He took her hand in both of his.
“Perhaps for obvious reasons,” Juraira said, “it was important to me not to make the world a worse place.”
Golshan smiled a small, indulgent smile.
“Is that ridiculous?” Juraira asked.
“He likes your words,” Demna said. “They are like Ikho’s words.”

December 7, 2024 at 1:12 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Vanen has opinions about manners, class, and nonsense. Alalei is trying to seem more presentable.

So much for shorter scenes. And right down to the wire for today. :(

#WIPsnip #BrightConstant #spoonless

WIPsnip for Dec 5 2024 truncated:

Alalei peppered the chemist with questions, and the nervous forward slump of his shoulders eased by the time the heavy canvas tent slouched into view.
Vanen waited inside, writing something out with a dip pen. Her hand was fast, and it was dim except for the light from a lamp—an oil lamp with a sheet mica chimney protecting the flame from drafts. There were no other servants at the moment.
“Hello again, Avanen,” Alalei said. “Do you have a courtesy title I can use?”
“Vanen,” she corrected. “Aren’t we friends, Alaltan Maral?”
Alalei smiled a little.
“It sounds funny when you say it like that,” Alalei said.
She felt for a seat at the edge of the table, where Vanen’s lamp was. The mica in her makeup glittered and made her look faintly luminous.
“I meant it to,” Vanen said. “Are you studying to be a chemist? You look like a lady. Don’t touch that chimney, it’s hot already.”
“Golshan chose the colours and taught me how to put them on,” Alalei said. “Also I learned some courtly manners.”
Vanen put her tongue between her lips and blew, trumpeting her scorn without looking up from her page. Alalei made a startled giggle, and Vanen smiled.
“Golshan says I should talk at peoples faces ‘instead of their knees,’” Alalei sighed. “But you didn’t do that in the rocks, someone would get angry. There would be blood.”
“Imitate the lad,” Vanen said. “Kill a few aristocrats while you’re at it.”
“Just not me,” Juraira said, and Alalei giggled again. "I’m sure he ordered burghers like Vanen put to death at least once. Cobble-throwing, tax-evading gangsters, whose favourite bloodsport is dragging people to court. Jandarya has concrete tiles because of the burghers.”
“Tiles are inferior weapons to cobbles,” she said. “City fathers think twice about daring to tax you to pay for defence of the city if a good-sized cobblestone staved in the temple of the last guy who tried it.”

December 6, 2024 at 8:01 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Juraira is confined to her bed after a strange fit. Her brain spits out uncomfortably sexual thoughts about Alalei, one of her courtiers. Dawa always knows more than he tells.

Too spoonless to add much.

#BrightConstant #WIPsnips #spoonless

WIPsnip for Dec 4 2024:

She remembered Gulbadan talking about skin hunger.
She spoke of it mostly in regard to the very young, and the unwell or brutalised: ‘Intimacies between people are like the organs and the ribs, the child and the womb, or the brain and the skull; how vulnerable, and how necessary, is such a relationship to the organism.’
Juraira craved closeness just then. She wanted to undress Alalei one article at a time and feel the warmth of her skin, tangle their legs together, feel the pulses of Alalei’s neck against her lips.
Alalei moved closer, close as two spoons.
“Try to relax, Sis,” Alalei said. “It’s going to be all right.”
She pillowed her cheek on Juraira’s shoulder. She smelled of flowers and sweet myrrh, and she was warm and soft.
Juraira wondered what Alalei sounded like when she was in transport, the fluttering of her breath, the specifics of her cries and her whispers, and what would make her speak, what she said and how she moved at the peak of frenzy. She wondered what it would require to put Alalei into frenzy.
“I feel raw,” Juraira said. “Every part of me. Like I have been burned.”
Juraira rubbed her face and forced the thoughts from her mind.
Dawa fetched a lute and sat down by the bedside.
“Perhaps contemplate a cool bath,” he said, as he tested the tuning of the lute.
She contemplated the profound shock of the lake water after a steam bath in winter—the chill of the air stabbing into the flesh, cold stones under foot, then the lake water kept above freezing by hot water bubbling from the bottom, then staggering back to the steam bath. It seemed to at least change what she was fixated on—she would have happily pitched herself into that lake and floated there in the moment, or drowned and been freed of her madness.
“Perhaps a flowering meadow instead,” Dawa said.

December 5, 2024 at 5:37 AM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

A traveller Juraira met has a treasure in a world stricken with disease.

Too long! Lesson learned. Synonyms being 𝘣𝘶𝘺, 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘭, and 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦.

I tried breaking this into component images. Used a budding plum b/c springtime is coming in this chapter. Link in 🧵.

#brightconstant #WIPsnips

WIPsnip for Nov 29 2024 truncated, this is what I get for a long one:

It was the lavender she smelled first, then the tang of opium in sweat, and the musk of hana over pain. Then perfumer’s rose for peace, orange blossom to soothe, myrrh and frankincense for aches and pains, and faint sick sweat.
There would be other things involved, mint on the breath for the dyspepsia, beeswax plasters for the worst joints and muscles, vinegar and lemon soap on body clothes because zahri water was intolerable.
Yaqut’s course for malaise illnesses, migraine, arthritis, and, by the rich, hangover, but she knew it wasn’t a hangover.
When the door opened, she recognised the woman without knowing her likeness: she had gotten impressions of her from Golshan in his bath house.
Her height and build were obscured by a loose lac purple caftan and her stooping. She could not walk unaided at the moment, every movement showed pain or clumsiness, the failure of nerves to bring life and vigour to the muscles.
Her black hair was bound up in five braids, but they were fuzzy from resting on a pillow.
Juraira imagined the woman’s roots originated in the Arga region. She would have been lovely before she was stricken, no doubt.
The old mad knight left with a parting cruelty.
Golshan lost his mantle of gaiety, his attention taken by the woman as she settled.
“This is Aysel,” he said. “She is the most precious thing in this orda. If you lie about the efficacy or safety of this solution, Avanen of Rigo, my revenge will follow you home. I have a great deal of money even for a noyan, I can buy and sell the Met, and purchase a great deal of death besides. I will visit every wicked thing I can conceive of upon your home to make an example of it. I will burn it down and salt the earth. I will make your name a curse in the mouths of your countrymen. Do you understand me?”

WIPsnip for Nov 29 2024 split between 2 images because TOO LONG:

It was the lavender she smelled first, then the tang of opium in sweat, and the musk of hana over pain. Then perfumer’s rose for peace, orange blossom to soothe, myrrh and frankincense for aches and pains, and faint sick sweat.
There would be other things involved, mint on the breath for the dyspepsia, beeswax plasters for the worst joints and muscles, vinegar and lemon soap on body clothes because zahri water was intolerable.
Yaqut’s course for malaise illnesses, migraine, arthritis, and, by the rich, hangover, but she knew it wasn’t a hangover.
She had treated her husband with such things while he was feeble from illness. Athletes used it after competition, but the steps in the grass were shortened and slowed, and softened, and she knew that walk, too.
When the door opened, she recognised the woman without knowing her likeness: she had gotten impressions of her from Golshan in his bath house.
Her height and build were obscured by a loose lac purple caftan and her stooping. She could not walk unaided at the moment, every movement showed pain or clumsiness, the failure of nerves to bring life and vigour to the muscles.
Juraira looked carefully at her, both for details and to not seem too obvious.
Her black hair was bound up in five braids, but they were fuzzy from resting on a pillow. She hadn’t hidden this under a veil or cap, so Juraira expected she simply didn’t care who knew she was unwell.
Juraira imagined the woman’s roots originated in the Arga region. Her eyebrows were long and dark, common in Yaghana, but her nose was somewhat flat and broad, as seen in Amur. She had large brown eyes of an almond shape, only half open, and her eyelids had the bruise-like darkness of illness. Her mouth was small and lips generous, common in Yaghana, but dry and bloodless. She wore no powder on her skin and was rather pale from seclusion.
She would have been lovely before she was stricken, no doubt.

WIPsnip for Nov 29 2024 split between 2 images & truncated because TOO LONG B:

He took the woman’s hand. With great care, he helped her to his bench throne to sit beside him.
“I apologise for my dullness,” she said, her voice a little low and weak. “It is an unfair whim. I would change it, if I could.”
Golshan lost his mantle of gaiety, his attention taken by the woman as she settled.
“This is Aysel,” he said.
His voice was soft and deliberate. The room seemed to cool.
“She is the most precious thing in this orda,” Golshan continued. “If you lie about the efficacy or safety of this solution, Avanen of Rigo, my revenge will follow you home. I have a great deal of money even for a noyan, I can buy and sell the Met, and purchase a great deal of death besides. I will visit every wicked thing I can conceive of upon your home to make an example of it. I will burn it down and salt the earth. I will make your name a curse in the mouths of your countrymen. Do you understand me?”
Vanen made a small bow from her waist, and showed no hint of pique or fear.
“Your grace, I have no doubt of the truth of your words,” Vanen said. “I have heard ones like them before, and the Met remains. If I should find someone peddling a false gold wine, no one’s saks will be swifter into their throat than mine. This is a treasure beyond all others. It is a golden spite to the fever’s cruelty. It is a golden dagger in his back, may he be tormented forever.”
“How long would it take to see results?” Altani said.
“If I gave her some tonight, then we will know how she responds in a few hours,” Vanen said. “I must make certain calculations for the dose. It takes a course, and for some it must be maintained. I must still find someone who can make it to continue to demonstrate it.”
Golshan turned to Aysel. Her hand was still held in his.
“I will try it,” she said to him.
Her voice seemed soothing, as if she meant to break some news to him.
She has dismissed the great portion of hope.

November 29, 2024 at 10:45 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Juraira seeks advice from Dawa after an attempt to connect with someone goes awry.

I realised in hindsight Dawa is (unintentionally) inspired by the fox in 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦, a fox speaking philosophically of his own experience & perspective, marked by loss.

#BrightConstant #WIPsnips

WIPsnip truncated due to char limits:

A laugh escaped her body, unburdened by any mirth.
She bit her lip and didn’t look at him. She felt his attention despite his quiet, and she brought to mind the events and feelings of the evening, from the arrival of the Black Swans girls to mere moments earlier.
Her throat ached, but she was spared talking about it.
“Is it my foolish, inflamed nerves?” Juraira asked, clearing her throat. “Or my withered widow’s heart? Or perhaps some deep flaw in my character from childhood?”
Juraira sighed, her mouth tightening, twisting as she tried to keep from keening.
“Why did I send Demna away?”
Her voice trembled, and she sniffed cold air and pressed a handful of fresh snow to her cheeks.
“What idiocy that was!”
“Did you know the entertainer would make such an error?”
Juraira chewed her lip.
“No,” she said. “But I shouldn’t have broached the whole thing.”
“That is irrelevant,” Dawa said. “You estimate pain and difficulty differently when it is your own.”
“Do I?”
“He made a joke when you tried to share something deeply personal,” Dawa said. “If my gardener had laughed at me in my grieving, I would never have returned to him. You would not fault me for that.”
Juraira sighed.
“Fear is a natural drive of protection,” Dawa said. “I would have understood if he ran from me or threw rocks to chase me away. But ridicule would have been worse.”
Juraira sniffed.
“You were brave to talk to him,” she said.
“Partly suicidal, so danger meant less to me, but it did take some courage even so,” he said. “It is my good fortune that he was attentive, gentle, and kind. I brought him some ducks once, which he cooked and shared with me. I did not know how else to express my gratitude. It seemed reciprocal, in a way he had fed me when I was starving. He smashed the bones so I could have the marrow.”
“That was kind,” Juraira said.
“There is kindness,” Dawa said. “Along with foolishness and error.”

November 28, 2024 at 6:45 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Manushir discusses the political and psychological applications of magic with Juraira.

I was a lot like Manushir as a thirteen year old, in some ways—intellectual, curious, cynical.

I never put anyone to death or been a fugitive, though, he's got me beat there.

#BrightConstant #WIPsnips

WIPsnip preview for Nov 27, 2024:

“There’s got to be some way to make it better,” Manushir said.
“They are privileged people,” Juraira said. “They are rarely told no in ways they cannot massage, or coerce, or resist in some way.”
“Then they need something they can’t be seen to refuse,” Manushir said. “They probably can’t refuse Heaven. They must have superstitions, there must be things that invite bad luck even for them.”
Juraira considered this.
“Everyone knows I’m cursed,” Juraira said. “The viceroy’s wife didn’t mean any harm.”
“But they imagined you as surrounded by medicine and magic,” Manushir said.
“Medicine?” Juraira asked.
“In antiquity, there was little distinction between medicine and magic,” Manushir said, taking on a scholarly manner that seemed odd on his thirteen year old body. “The Giri still call old borders medicine lines. The word still has the two meanings, people just forgot.”
Juraira searched her memory.
Her mother had known the language of merchants, not of poets and statesmen. She had learned the terms for dry and wet medicines, for boundaries and claims, but not this notion.
“Why the same?” she asked.
“Poison is also medicine,” Manushir said. “I know that foxgloves will yield a substance that stirs the heart in strange ways—it is medicine or poison by intent. The act of extracting and preparing it is a careful process, that must be done exactly the same way to produce the same effect. It’s the same as magic.”
“Hundred magic calls on spirits to intercede,” Juraira said. “Poisons and medicines are just powerful substances.”
“The idea still lives in their minds like a bear in a wood,” Manushir said.
“I don’t know how to use it,” Juraira said.
“It’s power that you work, from your understanding and your force of character,” Manushir said. “It doesn’t have to be anything more than simple chemistry in practice, but that’s not what the magic is.”

November 27, 2024 at 7:35 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Juraira reports a sort of vision she had to Alalei to soothe her nerves.

Juraira's confronted by the degree of deprivation Alalei lived with. Sugar was previously quite expensive, often unavailable in some places, and likewise its useful applications.

#BrightConstant #WIPsnips #amwriting

WIPsnip excerpt for Nov 26 follows:

The Heron Sedges had no sugar.
Perhaps small amounts of honey, perhaps the thimble berries boiled into sweet pulp.
She thought of Taormo breaking up sugar lumps that looked like rock crystal, as he made his pari hairpins coloured with saffron.
There was sweetness, yes, but no sugar.
No settled neighbours could grow the pale-fleshed beet, and separate the pulp and the water to boil off.
Strong alcohol was harder to make for cleaning, and fruit could not be easily cooked and sealed up in jars to brighten the winter.
Juraira imagined the little red thimbles carrying those pleasant memories like Taormo’s gimbal lamps held their little flames.
She thought of Kingfisher and the nun, and the suspicious riders.
Juraira smudged her thumb against Alalei’s cool, wet cheek.
“They will be all right?” Alalei asked. “Won’t they?”
She sniffed and wiped her face.
“She has your pin,” Juraira said, and she kept the pitch of her voice low and even, because it bothered her ears less. “She will meet a man with eyes like yours. He’ll recognise it when she holds it up for him to see. He’ll be with another man. They’ll challenge her, but she will not be afraid of them.”
“Eyes like mine?” Alalei asked.
“Near your age, I think,” Juraira said.
She became aware of the nausea growing in her stomach. She expected it was anxiety stirred up by the prospect of telling anyone.
Some who see things are seeing things. Some who see things are insane.
Juraira had learned to keep secrets.

November 26, 2024 at 8:05 PM

Akili

@winterbyrne.bsky.social

Juraira realizes what's wrong with her in ch. 6.

Was fun to imagine where anatomy scholarship came from in my setting, as dissection was not common. Settled on deriving it partly from Egyptian-type embalming. So my Vesalius is Hruret the Cat, surgeon & embalmer's daughter. #WIPsnip #brightconstant

Apologies, I don't have enough alt text characters for all of this work-in-progress snip, so I cut some in the middle:

Meningoencephalitis. Aggravation, usually by contagion, of the sac matrices which wrap the brain.
She remembered the edition of Hruret in her father's collection, vellum sheets peeling back the skull and the layers of flesh under it, webbed and mesh-like with vessels for blood and the cistern within the spine and brain. It was labelled in tiny script, she remembered, she couldn't read it without a glass.
She recalled her father's voice. She couldn't picture his face.
'It is a septicity of the brain. It can steal one's hearing or sight. It is a cruel thing that can leave its victims maimed. Naturally, the Visitor can cause a person to suffer from it.'
Juraira swallowed.
Maimed, I am maimed.
"I'm going to ride out," Mountain Dog said, as if no conversation had been taking place. "Just to the dispatch station for now."
"He's dead, tell them… He's dead."
Juraira formed the words carefully, slurring and forcing the air from her lungs, bracing her throat open.
"What do you mean?" Mountain Dog asked.
"Deputies. Dogs. Stuns—… Stunted trees. Barred coats."
"Like the manhunt team?"
Mountain Dog's eyebrows were drawing into a frown.
"Dumped. Wrapped up. Cattle—… Cattlemen."
Juraira grimaced.
"Hurting."
Juraira began to tremble again, and Idri helped put her to bed. She faced the wall of the ger and shuddered, though she wasn't cold.
"Bab, I think it's one for the hana," Idri said. "I think she's fitting."
She was not asking, but offering a brisk report.
"Yes, I agree," Mountain Dog said, brushing his hands. "Go ahead, Idri."
Juraira heard the tinkling of tough ceramic as Idri hurried to sort through her things.
Staring at the felt wall of the ger, she had the same boneless paralysis as before. It passed, but left her with a crawling sensation riddling her skin, and she thought of how worms ate the hulls of boats.

November 25, 2024 at 4:14 PM

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