Burnt pasta edition
Nov. 6th, 2007 10:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hawkwing_lb1930 hrs.
Right. I'm typing this in the library, though it won't get posted till after I get home. I'm halfway through an essay on the connections between Egypt and Minoan Crete in the Bronze Age - I swear, every time I think I'm closing on the end of this thing I discover another piece of vital information - and bored, tired and hungry is how best to describe me right now, I believe.
Hope everyone who went had a good WFC.
I don't have anything to say. Would you believe that? So much for my escaping my essay to wax lyrical on... I don't know what I was going to wax lyrical on, but it would have been good, trust me.
...And I just realised something. An essay a week is the same as 2-2.5K a week, or 500 words every working day. With lots and lots of reading. No wonder I haven't felt so much like writing: all my time and all my brain has been eaten by the giant sucking black hole of essay-writing.
Trinity: eating students' brains for >400 years
She remembers him as plump, ivory bracelets on fleshy wrists and a rich man's ironic smile. But now he comes to her hollowed and thin, skin in folds slack and loose around his jaw, following late on the heels of the trade caravans he has in other times led. A sword-hilt mantles iron behind one lean shoulder. The calluses on his once-soft hands speak of practice and hard use.
"Loremistress," he says, unsmiling, and goes to one knee on the rough flags of her hall. Sunlight from a high window tangles in the cropped auburn of his hair. Somewhere he has learned humility, for none of pride's rigidity stiffens the line of his back. "I pray you, tell me how I might find the witch Caillean the Red?"
She has braziers in her hall, burning wood and herbs against the autumn chill. Despite their scent she smells him strongly, sweat and old mud turned rank by days without bathing. Briefly, she pities him, but a woman does not hold a hall in the upper reaches of the Borderlands -- no more does a man -- without learning ruthlessness.
But she is tired.
"Stand up," she tells him, and watches his winter-pale eyes as he rises. He has learned a fine control, but there's heat in them, and anger, and she wonders now will the guest-laws hold him from violence, if she refuses him. If.
A loremistress' charge is knowledge, but it does not come without a price.
whatever time it is now.
Tonight I discovered a great and terrible talent: when sufficiently tired, I can burn pasta.
Yes. Pasta.
I sleep now, I think.
Right. I'm typing this in the library, though it won't get posted till after I get home. I'm halfway through an essay on the connections between Egypt and Minoan Crete in the Bronze Age - I swear, every time I think I'm closing on the end of this thing I discover another piece of vital information - and bored, tired and hungry is how best to describe me right now, I believe.
Hope everyone who went had a good WFC.
I don't have anything to say. Would you believe that? So much for my escaping my essay to wax lyrical on... I don't know what I was going to wax lyrical on, but it would have been good, trust me.
...And I just realised something. An essay a week is the same as 2-2.5K a week, or 500 words every working day. With lots and lots of reading. No wonder I haven't felt so much like writing: all my time and all my brain has been eaten by the giant sucking black hole of essay-writing.
Trinity: eating students' brains for >400 years
She remembers him as plump, ivory bracelets on fleshy wrists and a rich man's ironic smile. But now he comes to her hollowed and thin, skin in folds slack and loose around his jaw, following late on the heels of the trade caravans he has in other times led. A sword-hilt mantles iron behind one lean shoulder. The calluses on his once-soft hands speak of practice and hard use.
"Loremistress," he says, unsmiling, and goes to one knee on the rough flags of her hall. Sunlight from a high window tangles in the cropped auburn of his hair. Somewhere he has learned humility, for none of pride's rigidity stiffens the line of his back. "I pray you, tell me how I might find the witch Caillean the Red?"
She has braziers in her hall, burning wood and herbs against the autumn chill. Despite their scent she smells him strongly, sweat and old mud turned rank by days without bathing. Briefly, she pities him, but a woman does not hold a hall in the upper reaches of the Borderlands -- no more does a man -- without learning ruthlessness.
But she is tired.
"Stand up," she tells him, and watches his winter-pale eyes as he rises. He has learned a fine control, but there's heat in them, and anger, and she wonders now will the guest-laws hold him from violence, if she refuses him. If.
A loremistress' charge is knowledge, but it does not come without a price.
whatever time it is now.
Tonight I discovered a great and terrible talent: when sufficiently tired, I can burn pasta.
Yes. Pasta.
I sleep now, I think.
