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So I'm feeling faintly stuck on the WIP, and in response to my inability to write the next bit usefully, apparently my brain is starting to create new stories. So now I have a character (who isn't the POV character for a change), about half a situation, and some random worldbuilding stuff puttering about in my head in desperate search for a plot.
Heh.
There you go,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
oneironaut. It's a cinquenta. Even if my word count thing insists on counting hyphenated words as two.
Hm. So some got written:
They say she came into the village on a Sunday, smelling of the sea, with kelp tangled into her hair. She sat on a rock at the edge of the commons combing it out with her fingers and dropping it onto the ground, while the truants from services gathered at the other end and pointed at her and stared. The priest came out, and the acolytes with the censer and candles, and they tried holy water and prayer on her, but she did not vanish in a puff of brimstone.
After some debate with the elders, the priest decided she was human enough, despite her narrow hips and near-nonexistent breasts and strange-tinted skin and the fact that she came up out of the water like some pagan spirit and did not speak a word of any civilized language. She was given proper clothes and shown a small, thatched hut on the edge of the village. She bowed to them like a man, and went inside, and they did not see her again until Tuesday. Except for the children that looked in her windows and saw that she did nothing but sleep, but the they that tell such tales do not listen overmuch to the stories children tell when their own fancies tend to sorcery.
Single bioengineered female seeking storyline. Interests: interplanetary travel, theft, deep-ocean diving. Looking for a plot involving plenty of swimming, a place to hide out, and possible vengeance. Likes people who don't ask too many questions, have useful skills. Simple needs, quiet, self-sufficient, willing to pay own way. Good with children.
Heh.
There you go,
oneironaut. It's a cinquenta. Even if my word count thing insists on counting hyphenated words as two.Hm. So some got written:
They say she came into the village on a Sunday, smelling of the sea, with kelp tangled into her hair. She sat on a rock at the edge of the commons combing it out with her fingers and dropping it onto the ground, while the truants from services gathered at the other end and pointed at her and stared. The priest came out, and the acolytes with the censer and candles, and they tried holy water and prayer on her, but she did not vanish in a puff of brimstone.
After some debate with the elders, the priest decided she was human enough, despite her narrow hips and near-nonexistent breasts and strange-tinted skin and the fact that she came up out of the water like some pagan spirit and did not speak a word of any civilized language. She was given proper clothes and shown a small, thatched hut on the edge of the village. She bowed to them like a man, and went inside, and they did not see her again until Tuesday. Except for the children that looked in her windows and saw that she did nothing but sleep, but the they that tell such tales do not listen overmuch to the stories children tell when their own fancies tend to sorcery.
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