It’s cold. As in a miserable wind chill. Of course, by the looks of the storms hitting east of here, from Minnesota to Main to Florida, I’ve nothing to complain about. So I will endeavor not to.
First day of block today. It’s advanced lit theory and we’re focusing on Postcolonial theory. Went well. Tiny class, which is fun. The only bad thing is that I can’t find this one Pears Soap ad (which were incredibly racist and devoted to the colonial project) and it’s killing me. Looked online, on my saved files (a bunch of which seem to be missing), and in my files. Can’t find it.
The final revisions on my WIP titled Soul Mage went off to my agent to be shopped around. Now I have to both wait and start on my other idea.
And in honor of that event, a snippet:
Seavik ran a finger over the odd black and red design ribboning along the edge. Something bit his finger. He jerked back sharply, making a startled sound. A bit of skin and several drops of blood dribbled onto the page. Then as he watched, the blood and skin absorbed into the pale sheet and vanished, leaving the page pristine except for the writing. He shoved himself back, his chair tumbling as he lunged to his feet.
Acting on instinct, he drew his dagger, skewered the invitation and flicked it into one of the braziers burning along the wall to light the room. Flames licked the page and the paper twisted as if resisting. A keening sound filled the room, making Seavik’s skin prickle. The paper knotted up and then melted flat. The design on the edges rose like blind, toothy worms, jaws snapping. The fire turned blue and green and the paper exploded in a puff of ash. The room quieted.
Seavik stared. What manner of magic was this?
Slowly he sheathed his knife and looked at his finger. An oval divot had been sliced out of it. He blotted his finger on a napkin as he considered. The ambassador could not have expected the attack to go unnoticed. Seavik would have to make a bloody reponse. Which begged the question, why do it?
He recalled the way his blood and skin had disappeared into the paper. His hand clenched around the cloth. What sort of magic did these visitors posses? What evil had they brought to Keatu-Safi?
He reached for the bell to summon— Who? He blinked. What was he doing? He turned, confused. His attention fell on the pile of papers on his desk. Something to do with—
Whatever it was slipped from his mind. He shrugged, rubbing his hand over the everpresent ache in his stomach, then reached for his cooling cherza. He glanced down at the napkin in his hand. There was blood on it and a small oval cut on his finger. His brow furrowed. How had that happened?