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 Posted: Thu Mar 06, 2008 9:17 am
"If you do not know where you are going, any road will get you there." o. this post 1. all about the dust 2. all about the dust2 3. guardian babbling 4. references 5-a.n. practice writings with dust-chan TO-DO LIST:1. content pls (20%!!) 2. banners3. concept doodles 4. practice writings [size=11][color=#380474][align=center][img]http://www.langetombe.net/graphic_bore.jpg[/img]
[b]title[/b][/align]
blah blah blah content here please blah blah blah content!
color is called "blue deep"...[/color][/size]
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Posted: Thu Mar 06, 2008 3:27 pm
 dust: cobalt sunshine
life dust: cobalt sunshine quartz
This particular quartz is a deep blue color that means it is a stone representing communication and new experiences. Cobalt Sunshine is a spiritual stone, kept by artists and writers to bring out their imagination and, occasionally, personal power; it is sometimes used as a mediation crystal in seances, since it enhances your psychic awareness of yourself.
This quartz is not found in such hues naturally. It is instead treated with vaporized cobalt and silver to give it this particular hue. The color is permanent.
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Posted: Thu Mar 06, 2008 6:22 pm
dust: duskcolors
dust
Her name is Dusk. She is female and her skin is a very dark, dusky purple or blue. She has white pupils and black sclera. Her hair is silvery purple and is usually up in some kind of elaborate and strange style with at least three ornaments in it. Her clothes are made of heavy brocades and silks and she generally wears a lot of layers. She develops quickly but ends up with an ultimately boyish figure. From her back are several trails of colored air, from pale blues to deep purple to pale pinks.
Dusk is rather calm. It take a lot to rouse her temper, and even when angry, she's not very fierce. What she is is good with words; she can communicate in four words what would take someone else four sentences or more. She's also very creative, taking up many of the arts. This isn't to say she's skilled at everything, but she tries and usually is willing to practice until she gets it right. Unfortunately, she's hardly any good at small things and has to go right to the full composition. She's rather unpatient. But she's very social, which is good, because otherwise she'd never get any good ideas.
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Posted: Wed Mar 12, 2008 2:46 pm
the guardian: matsuo lavoiser
Matsuo's theme song is Sargasso Sea, by Suzanne Clani.
Matsuo runs a cafe in Amies, and does very well at it. He serves coffees and cakes of all sorts- and each is hand-ground or hand-made. With the cooking materials, he is an artist at his canvas. Only prettier.
He wants you all to think he's bad, because he has those malformed wings. But he's not. Inside, he is a marshmellow (if you put him near fire he begins to toast! not really).
He has a sword of unknown origin, and he uses it to cut cake, preferably strawberry. Being a marshmellow, he's prone to stuffing your face with cake, most likely chocolate. In case you haven't noticed, he loves cake.
Of others, Matsuo is pretty sociable. He is a GOSSIP. And he deserves all six letters capitalized, too... But he's not the sort to spread malicious gossip (although he LOVES drama). Marshmellow, remember?
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Posted: Wed Mar 12, 2008 2:50 pm
references
There's... nothing here?
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Posted: Wed Mar 12, 2008 2:52 pm
mdmthis is an exercise from the book 3am Epiphany: #1, the reluctant i
This is a ritual of some kind. It’s nothing new, not really; Matsuo is washing his hands in the sink after finishing a chocolate cake for a customer. He is dead to the world during this time, when he holds his hands under water so hot that his skin is turning a scalded pink and runs his nails through the scrub brush that he uses to get burned residue off the pans. This must be what he does when he thinks no one is watching, because his hands always look a little reddened and raw.
It’s strange. Someone else has joined him at the sink, a blonde woman who is wearing strange clothes. Matsuo wears red, all the time, even though he should wear blue for contrast with his hair. His hair is a bright copper, like a river of molten metal that flows down his back to his waist. They’re talking, but so softly no one can hear them. She turns on the cold water, and Matsuo flinches away from the freezing deluge. But that smile doesn’t leave his face. Instead of yelling as others would, he picks up one of the fluffy white towels and begins to wipe his hands dry, one finger at a time. He splays his fingers and dries between them. His skin is such a bright red. If only this woman had shown up sooner. Poor Matsuo.
Who is she? She repeats his ritual, and her skin turns a pale greenish-blue hue that there is no word for. Hypothermia, she says, and she laughs with him. Better than heat exhaustion, he tells her, and puts one of those boiled hands on her shoulder. Just like Matsuo, she runs the towel between each of her fingers, but then she runs her hands against her black pants. It’s a change, tiny, but significant. She puts her arm around his waist and they walk to the doors.
“We’ll be back,” Matsuo says. “Watch the till.”
Perhaps she’s his sister. An aunt. Such strange clothes, she can’t be from around here. Of course many strange things happen around here. She looked so fearsome, even when she smiled, that something quailed from interrupting them. From asking to go along. But here, she is whoever. Enigmas are good for that.
Without the running water, it is oppressively quiet.
Maybe she was his lover once. She is strong and frightening, and Matsuo is so unassuming. It's definitely a possibility.
I imagine her past- perhaps abandoned at birth, left to fend for herself or raised among wolves. She had a vicious curve to her mouth, like a wolf. She could be a monster, entrapped in the skin of a human and waiting for the one victim to trust her completely so she could bathe herself in his blood and resume her nightmarish form. But Matsuo could defend himself with the brightly glowing blade he kept with him at all times. Poor Matsuo. He ought to open his eyes every once in a while.
She was confident. It showed in every line of that taut, fit body, the way she seemed to lead herself with one hand raised in the air and how her torso always listed to the left. A perfect body, really, with long legs and slender arms. The way she walked in stood out especially- pausing in the doorway, looking over the cafe Matsuo has had since forever. Her lips had that wolfish sneer, but when she saw Matsuo, it turned to the most beautiful smile. Her teeth were straight and white.
Her eyes were masked by a black cap with a stiff, shiny brim. Even though her flat stomach was exposed, she didn't seem affected by the cold outside, and that might have been the leather coat with a fur hood attached. It was new, stiff leather, evident by the way her arms couldn't quite lift above her head as she waved to the shop at large.
Soft conversation takes the place of the water. The look of confusion on my face must have been amusing, because Matsuo is smiling his warmest smile and the woman is grinning.
Perhaps she's not a wolf. She's not any kind of animal at all.
"Misericorde," she says, sticking her thumbs in the back pockets of her tight pants. "My name." Just like Matsuo, she is not very talkative. Perhaps she was-
"Stop that," she says. Amusement. Silence falls over the shop, and Matsuo begins to make a new cake. Strawberry, his favorite flavor. For the guest.
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Posted: Fri Mar 21, 2008 2:47 am
mondaychronologically, will be before 'the reluctant i'
The first odd thing she noticed on Monday: She awoke to the heavy scent of expensive perfume.
Dusk padded down the stairs and looked at Matsuo. It appeared he'd finally passed out in an armchair near the television after being up and going for the last three days. All those orders from a large noble family had to be wearing on his nerves, but if anything he had seemed even more disaffected and gleeful than normal. She stepped over a bag of golf clubs and pulled a large afghan off the back of the couch. After taking away the book he had held tightly in one hand, marking the page and putting it aside, she carefully covered him up with the knitted blanket.
Then she walked into the kitchen, where the thick cloud of perfume seemed to be coming from. A strange woman stood at the window over the sink, a bottle of golden Fidji perfume open on the sill. Her hands were folded and her head bowed.
This was private. She backed out.
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