(no subject)

Boo, I am not amused. I went to get started on the last of the armeture work for my staff, and I turned on my internet radio. And my preferred station (Celtic Rock Radio) was full. So was Radio De Dannan, Paddy Punk, and Gardai Na Sean Criche. I started freaking out until I remembered it's St. Patrick's Day. I celebrate Saint Patrick's Day every day, like I'm going to remember when it actually comes up.

At last I found a station that wasn't full, and now I'm listening to a definitively non-Irish woman singing something called 'Sake in the Jar'. It's in Japanese. With traditional Japanese instruments. I am very, very confused.

I listen to one thing and one thing only while I'm working, and that's Irish drinking music and battle ballads. I want my traditional rowdy Irish music!

My niece is coming over today, the eldest. My stupid phone is still dead, so I hope husband_brother is dropping by for lunch. We need to discuss details of camping this weekend! We're just jotting down to the Verde for Saturday night.

I feel every day more that existence its losing its joy and whimsy for me. :/ Maybe it's just the dying of the year....

On One Hand, I'm Writing Again....

Note to self:

Checking canon facts is probably a good idea before you're 15,000 words into your epic fic. That way, you would have known beforehand that the ancient regalia you're sending your knight questing after....is essentially in his own damn backyard.

I wonder if I can believably write it that he himself had no freaking idea where it was, since it's canon that he doesn't really know that much about anything that doesn't happen right in front of his face....

And he can still grab the Master Sword while he's out and about. That'll really impress Zelda....

Small Sample: The young man remembered it well. The rough stone had been cold through his simple cotton tunic and trews. There had been the smell of rain in the air and a thin membrane of clouds across the sky and the glaring point of light behind them seemed to pulse with aloof disdain. Even the sun had seemed to mock him, the sun through which he had been told his strength and blood came. He had sat and closed his eyes and tried to feel and see and hear, but all that soaked through his skin was the cold and the stone. He felt nothing in the air around him but a damp chill and the promise of the coming storms. All that he heard were the humming and buzzing on insects in the field, all he saw were the color bright images behind his own eyelids. And all the while the sorcerer urged him to touch that ancient, holy power, to feel it run through his very veins, joining with his ancient and holy blood, unlocking the great hidden power that was surely within him!

He had never again been taken to that sacred place, and all his guardian's talk of ancient rituals and blood rites and his own power ceased entirely.