Author: thewriterinblack

Let’s just say that was quite disappointing when I found out what it actually ways.

Some years back I had a problem with being sleepy all the time.  I wasn’t quite nodding off at the wheel of my car, but at my desk, when watching movies (no matter how involving), reading, trying to write (I don’t think my fiction is soporific), and pretty much anywhere.

My doctor at the time ordered a “sleep study.” For this, I went into a clinic where they wired me up like a hi-fi nut’s stereo system and I was supposed to sleep that way through the night.  Well, I managed to sleep with all those wires hanging off me and a few days later we got the results.

I didn’t have Sleep Apnea.  My blood O2, however, did go down while I was sleeping, enough that it interfered with getting a restful night’s sleep.  Also enough to cause potential long term health effects.  Bad juju that.

They prescribed 2 l/m of oxygen at night and an oxygen concentrator was ordered.

This doesn’t completely get rid of the daytime sleepiness and, so, another test is ordered, a “multiple sleep latency” test.  In this I go in for the night.  They wire me up and I sleep in the clinic (this is to make sure I get a good night’s sleep), then the next day I stay–I can read, watch TV, etc. but several times during the day I’m supposed to lay back for a 10 minute “nap”.  The idea is to see if I actually fall asleep for those naps.  I do, for every one.  Diagnosis, “hypersomnia” which I call in my own head “Narcolepsy lite.”

They prescribe a medication, Provigil, to fight off the daytime sleepiness.  However, first dosage costs $70/month and that’s just the insurance co-pay. (There’s an alternative medicine, but it’s not only more expensive, but more strictly controlled so the pain in the keester factor in getting it would be much higher.) The first dosage is inadequate so they go to a stronger dose, which has a co-pay of $100/month.

Eventually, I decide this is ridiculous.  I get the same effect, a lot more cheaply, with caffeine.  So we cut out the provigil and I go back to drinking a lot of caffeinated beverages.  I can’t stand coffee.  I can tolerate tea.  And I actually like diet colas.

Several years later, a number of my health concerns were better under control we we tried an abbreviated test.  I wore a blood oxygen monitor overnight and, surprise, surprise, my blood oxygen was okay.  Yay!  I could go off the oxygen (and get rid of the monthly co-pay for the machine rental).

Fast forward several more years.  I’m having the same symptoms again.  The caffeine isn’t doing it.  So my doctor (different doctor since we switched to a different practice in the interim) orders another sleep study.  This time they send over a “home sleep study kit” from Novasom.  It has a gadget that I wear around my wrist when I go to bed.  A blood O2 sensor (basically a light shined through the fingertip) is taped to one finger and plugged into it.  A breathing sensor hooks just under my nose.  And a “breathing effort” strap wraps around my chest.  They all plug into the unit and I sleep wearing it.

It was actually a lot less invasive than that original sleep study.  A lot less in the way of wires and cables hooked up to me.  And, being self contained and worn on my body, turning over in bed doesn’t leave me all tangled in the cables.

In the morning you plug it into the charger which is a signal for it to transmit back (cell phone connection I suspect) the results to the “head office”.

Then repeat that for a second night.  They say they get more accurate results with a two-night study.

Once you’re done, you pack it back in its box, stick the return address shipping label on it, and the unit goes back to, I presume, be cleaned up and sent to the next poor sucker who’s having trouble getting a good night’s sleep.

So now we wait for the results.

 

Here’s a list of my current active projects. (I probably have twice as many “back burnered”–I need to learn to write faster.)

The Beasts of Trevanta

The Changeling War is over, the magic that permitted wizards to create nigh unstoppable hordes in The Hordes of Chanakra has been dispelled, to late, however, to save the kingdom of Aerioch.  But the King still lives, as does his son, the swordsmistress Kaila, her wizardly father, and Kreg, the strange outworlder.  As they set on the path to restore lost Aerioch they find a foe never before seen.  Strange, savage beast-men roam the land, slaughtering or enslaving all they encounter.  Can they survive these strange creatures and begin the task of restoring Aerioch to her former glory?  Do even the gods know?

Wranglers.

Filling the awesome appetite for materials to feed a booming spaceborne economy is a monumental task.  To fill that need are the Wranglers family businesses that roam the asteroids in ion drive spaceships seeking asteroids rich in the heavy metals vital to industry.  They find the asteroids, mark them with identifying beacons, and divert their orbits down to any of several receiving stations.  But when marked asteroids fail to arrive, Tom Bardeau and his family must find out why before bankruptcy forces the sale of their ship and Tom becomes simply an employee working to someone else’s rules.

Dhampyre the Hunter

Dani Herzeg was a private investigator out of Nashville, but some cases were more private than others.  One of her tasks was to find, and kill, rogue vampires whose actions threatened to reveal the secret of their existence.   But when a case goes badly wrong, Dani finds keeping the secret the least of her problems as the death toll mounts in ever more public, ever more savage, ways.

Alchemy of Shadows

Johann Schmidt has gone by many names over the centuries.  An alchemist, whose very blood is the true, fabled philosopher’s stone.  But through the years he has been chased by mysterious beings he only knows as shadows.  He does not know what they want, why they pursue him.  He only knows that they want him and will destroy anyone who gets in their way with a freezing touch that not even the Elixir of Life can cure.

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Unfortunately, I don’t have an ETA on any of these.  They’ll be done when they’re done.

 

This work has been back-burnered for the time being.  I need to work out a few issues with it, plus I’ve got too many balls in the air right now anyway as it were.

Still, enjoy.

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I belong to a club, an exclusive club. You can’t buy into it. No amount of money will get you membership in this club. No study or application will gain entry. Entrance is only by birth.

Members of the club, like me, have one thing in common. Somewhere along our maternal line one of our ancestors had congress, willingly or not, with a demon and, as a result, bore a female child.

My name is Molly Joyner.  I am a witch.

I am not a “Wiccan”, a worshipper of an Earth Mother Goddess, attempting through rituals and spells to harness forces of which I have only an inkling, secure in the belief that the Universe is a friendly, happy place if only we live in harmony with it.

The Universe is not a friendly place. Demons are real. Their blood flows through my veins. It is a source of power. It is also a curse.

Some of my sisters, other members of this club, other witches, work with the demons, spreading their influence in the world. Others oppose them, turning powers spawned of demon blood against their brood.

I stand against the demons. That is why I was in this seedy bar working as a cocktail waitress.

“Here you go, Hun.”  As I set the Guiness Extra Stout down, one of the men at the table pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Sorry, Hun.  No smoking here.”

The man looked up, squinting at the brighter lights from the bar behind me.  Mid-thirties, with light brown hair.  More than a five o’clock shadow, call it an eight thirty shadow. “You’re shitting me?”

I shrugged. “Indiana law.  No smoking in places of business.  You’ll have to take it outside.”

Swearing softly under his breath, the man stood up. “Watch my drink, Paul.”

Another man, a bit older with dirty blond hair thinning on top, waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

The woman next to the older man scooted closer to him.  She peered up at me, her eyes narrowing. “You’re new here?”

I smiled. “Started here today.  Carlyle’s, on the south side, closed down so…” I forced myself not to hold my breath as I wondered if she saw through the hint of glamorie.

“Good luck.” Her voice was friendly but her expression anything but. “This place can be rough, but you can make good money.”

She appeared to be a young woman, mid-twenties.  Brunette hair swept back from the sides of her face and falling to the middle of her back.  Her eyebrows formed high arches above her heavy blue eyeshadow.  Bright pink lipstick shaded to deeper red at the edges of her full lips.

That would be her own glamorie, of course.  She hid it well.  Not a hint of magic showed through.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Yeah, a martini, shaken not stirred” The woman waved her hand airily.

I forced myself not to roll my eyes and jotted down the order. “Be right back.”

I handed the ticket to Mike at the bar.  He looked down at it then back up at me. “We have society here today?”

I shrugged and grinned.

Mike sighed and selected a bottle of gin.  I recognized it as the cheapest brand.  He measured some into a Cobbler shaker along with some vermouth.  After giving the shaker three halfhearted shakes he poured the mix into a martini glass and dropped in an olive, speared on a little plastic sword.

I set the drink on my tray. “Thanks, Mike.”

Back at the table, Paul sat alone scrolling through some text document on his phone.  I set the martini down in front of the woman’s place and waited.

Paul grunted and pulled his wallet form his hip pocket. “How much.”

I quoted a price.  He set the amount on the table, paused, then dropped an extra one on top of it.

I scooped up the money and tucked it into my apron. “Thank you.”

He grunted and turned back to his phone.

I straightened.  Where had she gone?  Toward the door?  No, not there.  I looked to the rear and saw her heading toward the bathrooms.  Before she reached them she sidestepped behind one of the privacy walls.  I spotted her a moment later, skirting the row of booths toward the front of the bar and the exit.

Turning, I hustled back to the bar and set my tray down. “Mike, I’m taking a short break.”

From where he was drawing a beer, he waved in my direction.  I wiped my hands on a bar towel then hustled toward the front door.

Outside, a few people clustered around the entrance to the bar but neither the woman nor the man I sought stood in sight.  I chewed on my lower lip for a moment then turned to the left.  Overflow parking lay in that direction, running around to the back of the bar.  I trotted in that direction and turned the corner.

None of the lights in this part of the parking lot worked.  Only the full moon, half veiled by clouds, illuminated the lot.  A spark of red light between the dumpster and the back wall of the bar drew my attention.

I curled the fingers of my right hand into a precise gesture and whispered the words of a simple spell, sharpening my eyesight allowing me to see in the shadow.

I saw the woman, Paul’s companion standing in front of the other man who had come in with Paul.  She stood facing him, her right hand raised and covering the man’s face.  He leaned back against the front wall of the bar, his arms hanging listlessly at his sides.  A half-finished cigarette hung between the first two fingers of his right hand.  The woman, the witch looked my way.  Only now she did not look to be in her mid-twenties.  Wrinkles spread in a fan from the corners of her eyes.  Others crossed her forehead.  Deep lines ran from the sides of her nose to the corners of her mouth.  Her hair was no longer blonde, but gray and thinning.  To all appearances she was in her sixties.

I raised my hand to my face, feigning an expression of surprise. “Oh, pardon me.”

The witch pointed her left hand in my direction.  Dim blue light shone at her fingertips. “You saw nothing.  Go back inside.”

I felt the force of her compulsion pressing against me.  I took a step back.  She turned back to the man.  I started to turn, as though to return to the front but keeping close watch on her as I did so.  In a moment, her attention returned to the man in front of her.  His eyes rolled back, his jaw hung open.  He moaned softly and his hips began to twitch.

In that moment, with the witch’s attention fully on the mind she was invading, I struck.  I stabbed out with a lance of magic, slipping past the witch’s unconscious defenses and paralyzing her.

Released from her control, the man slumped to the ground disoriented.  It would be several seconds before awareness returned to him.  Long enough.

“Hey!  What’s going on back there?”

I turned my head at the voice.  Another man stood about twenty feet away, his left hand upraised in my direction, his right behind his hip.

Swearing softly, I released the witch and stepped back, shifting my attention to the man, freezing him.  What had he seen?

The witch turned to face me and stepped back as well. “So.  You’re one of us.”

“Not one of you.”

She cast a glance in the direction of the newcomer then back to me. “I’ll leave you to deal with the witnesses.  Another time.” She faded back into the shadows and disappeared.

“Son of a…” I looked at the man I held frozen and pushed with a compulsion. “You saw nothing.  Go about your business.”

I then turned to the other man at my feet.  He looked up at me, his eyes dropping, his face slack.

“You okay?” I held a hand down to him.

He blinked, staring at my hand then turned, ignoring my hand and pushing himself to his feet. “What did that bitch do to me?”

He looked down at the cigarette still in his hand.  I nudged him mentally.

“She dosed my…” He spat then tossed the cigarette into the dumpster.

“Are you sure you’re…” I held out a hand to him again.

“Get away from me, whore.”

I raised my hands and stepped back.  He staggered back toward the front of the bar.

“What did I just see?”

I jumped at the voice.  I looked back over my shoulder.  The man I had frozen, that I thought had compelled to leave, stood unmoved, his right hand remaining behind his hip.  As I turned to face him and took a step forward.  He took two steps back.  His hand swept out and forward revealing a small semi-automatic pistol.  He brought the pistol around until it was pointed at my sternum.

“Stay where you are?”

I raised my hands up next to my shoulders, showing him my open hands.

“There’s no need for that.” I put another compulsion behind the words.

The barrel of the gun dipped then returned to line.

“What are you?”

I frowned.  Not only was this not going like it should, but I was using entirely too much magic.  He was not leaving and especially was not forgetting.

“I’m no threat to you.” Another compulsion, pushing the truth of my words.

“How did you?” The gun wavered.

I pressed my advantage. “It’s okay.  I’m one of the good guys.”

The gun drooped. “One of the?”

“Wouldn’t you just rather forget all this?”

“This is entirely too crazy to forget.” The gun dropped to his side. “But I’ll give you a chance to explain.”

I sighed and sagged against the wall.  With the way he was resisting the compulsions I needed time, time to find a way to preserve the secret. I looked over my shoulder at the bar.  Well, the job had merely been a cover, and that blown already.

I looked back to the man. “Would you care to discuss it over coffee?”

This is going to be brief.  Don’t really have a lot to say about this, but what I do say matters, I think.

The NYPD’s facebook page gave a warning to stay away from the area where a driver in a truck mowed down a bunch of people because “there had been a shooting.”

The driver after being stopped got out of the truck with fake guns (BB guns, I believe).  The only actual shooting was by the police.

Look, I don’t object to the police shooting.  They guy just committed several counts of murder and aggravated battery. (Hey, I’m not a court.  I don’t have to pretend I think he’s innocent until proven beyond reasonable doubt to a jury of his peers.) He came out of the truck doing his level best to look like he’s armed.  As far as I’m concerned you can add attempted suicide to the list of his actions.  Police were fully justified in opening fire.

No, it’s calling the incident a “shooting” when the only shots fired, indeed the only firearms present, were those of the police.  And, right on cue the usual suspects started crying, waving the still-wet bloody shirts of the victims of this asshole in their cry for “a conversation on gun control”. They con’t mean “conversation” of course.  They mean “give in to our demands on more restrictions on your rights.”

They’re using this incident–after all the police called it a “shooting”–to call for more gun control.  Control what guns?  The only guns involved were those of the police.  Somehow, I don’t think they’re calling for disarming the police.  Of course, logic an reason need not apply.  Any excuse, whether relevant or not, will be used by these people to push their views on the rest of us.  And the more blood they can paint themselves with, the better.

To be blunt, the last thing they want is an end to massacres and crimes.  They’re too useful for getting what they want.

The victims, therefore, have been victimized twice, once by the criminal, and once again by those using their death and pain to further political ends.

So there is this:

If you don’t condemn “white supremacy” then, of course you are a racist.  If you do, according to this…individual…that too indicates you are a racist.  There is literally no answer one could give that does not mean one is a racist.

This, of course, is a standard Kafkatrap, assuming guilt and using denial as further evidence of said guilt.  It is, of course, a fallacy but like with many other fallacies that doesn’t stop people from using it.  And, of course, it’s a matter of emotion, lot logic, and certainly not fact.

There’s a problem with this.  By declaring everybody a racist, regardless of what their actual positions on race might be, far from getting people to agree with you, you remove any incentive to bother with you at all.  There’s no point in trying to satisfy people who are never going to be satisfied.

Most people will simply continue with their own ethics.  They’re not going to let the perpetually unsatisfied dictate to them one way or the other.  But there are some, “in for a penny, in for a pound”, “might as well be hung for a ram as a sheep”, etc.  If you’re going to declare them racist anyway, they’ll figure they might as well go all-in.

This “everything is racist”, “everyone is racist”, nano-, pico-, atto- aggressions, bit will simply make the matters worse.

If you’re goal is to reduce, let alone end racism, then you’re doing it wrong.

If, however, your goal is to fan the fires of racism into a roaring conflagration, then you’re doing it right.

Which is your actual goal?  Think long and hard about your answer.

 

…without his weapons of war
for unsure is the knowing when need shall arise
of a spear on the way without.

Thus said Odin to all who would heed.  The world is a dangerous place, full of predators, and while most no longer need fear those that walk on four legs, in there place we have many who walk on two.

Even the so called Prince of Peace said:

Then said he unto them, But now, he that hath a purse, let him take it, and likewise his scrip: and he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one. (Luke 22:36)

(Yes, other translations say “cloak” but I like the King James Version and the implication that it is better to be naked than unarmed.)

The truth is, it is a dangerous world, full of predators both two legged and four.  While most people don’t consider wolves and bears and such a major threat in the modern world, I can note that I have seen coyotes in Indianapolis.  These are not generally a threat to adults, but can be to pets and small children.  In similar vein there are plenty of stray (“feral”) dogs which, while usually more timid than aggressive can still sometimes prove a threat.

There have also been both unconfirmed and a few confirmed (game cameras catching them) sightings of cougars in Indiana.  The Department of Natural Resources states that these are generally transient males “just passing through”.  There are no breeding populations in the State.

Yet.

But while the risk of four-footed predators is small for most people.  The risk of those on two feet is a different matter entirely.

Generally speaking violent crime rates are down.  This is a good thing.  But “down” is not the same as “no longer an issue”.

According to crime statistics reported by the FBI for 2016, there is approximately one violent crime (Aggravated Assault, Robbery, Rape, Murder) per every 300 people in the US.  In other words an individual’s chances of being the victim of one of these crimes is, on average about 0.3% for the year.

Sounds pretty safe, doesn’t it?

However, when you consider that over a lifetime, the impression changes.  The lifetime likelihood of being a victim of a an attempted or completed violent crime, according to a Department of Justice study, was 83%.  In about half of those cases the attempted crime would actually be completed.

I should note that things are better than this study reports:  The annual crime rates are down from those used in the lifetime likelihood of victimization study.  A quick run of the numbers suggests that the probabilities are about half what they were when the study was done.  That means that one is only, assuming current rates continue, 41% likely to be the victim of an attempted or completed violent crime.

Only.

You have to ask yourself:  are you willing to bet your life and safety on 40%?  If you are, well, it’s your life and your call to make, I suppose.  I’m not.  Because, when it happens, there’s just me.  The police?  If the police were there, most likely the violent criminal would not engage in his violent crime, choosing instead another place and time.  And until the police do arrive, there is just me.  Even the police admit that:

(Show them the phone?  Really?)

40% sometime in my life?  The odds of something happening today are minuscule.  The odds of something tomorrow, or any other given day, similarly so.  But add those days together and the odds start creeping up.  And I don’t know which, if any, of them will be “the one”.  After all, if I did, I’d simply avoid the situation of that day.

Those of us who do not go out looking for trouble do not know when it might find us on its own.  And so, as Odin would no doubt say in the modern world:

Never let a man stir on his road a step
without his weapons of self defense
for unsure is the knowing when need shall arise
of a gun on the way without.

Back from that business trip that put me offline.  And now that I’m home I just upgraded my phone from my older Samsung Galaxy S4 to a new Samsung Galaxy S8.

The phone is physically larger than the S4 as is becoming the trend.   After many years of the trend being for smaller and smaller phones, it reversed and is now going the other way.  As some have explained it:

In my case, it’s that I read books on my phone.  I have reached the point where the library in my Kindle app now dwarfs my never small physical library.  The phone is still small enough, even with the Otterbox Defender case I purchased for it, to fit in a shirt pocket, or into a front pants pocket.  I have a belt clip, of course (comes with the case), but that’s not always convenient to wear.  So I probably don’t want to get much larger.

One of the issues with the previous phone was that it could be hard to read, even at maximum brightness, in full sun.  I don’t know how this one compares in that respect.  It has been persistently gloomy outside since my return.

In addition to its size, the new phone has several advantages over my old one.  The icons for the apps are somewhat smaller so more fit on a screen “page”.  This means that all the apps I most commonly use fit on the home screen without having to bleed over to a second screen.  That’s a noticeable improvement in convenience.  The phone came with 64 GB of memory.  That’s more than the internal storage and Micro-SD card I had in my old phone combined.  I can put in a new card.

Transferring my old data and apps to the new phone was surprisingly convenient.  There’s an app that generates a QR code that let’s the two phones “talk” over WiFi for part of the process and there’s a “null modem” adapter that lets the two talk over a USB cable to complete the process.

The only thing that didn’t go through was my playlists.  I used Doubletwist as my main music player.  The music files went across but the playlists did not so rebuilding them is taking a bit of time.

Overall, I’ve been very happy with the new phone so far.  And the old one is packed away as a “backup” in case this one is lost or damaged.

 

An important question.  But a more important one is “why read”. (Note:  this is going to be brief and I don’t know how much posting I’m going to be able to do over the next several days–business trip for my “day job” coming up.)

People have told me to think about what my goal is as a writer and to be driven by that. There’s some good value in that advice, but the flip side is that whatever my goal might be as a writer, if it’s anything other than intellectual masturbation, then it must also consider what the reader’s goal is as a reader.

If a work doesn’t meet the reader’s goal in reading, then it doesn’t matter what goal mine might be (saving only that intellectual masturbation thing) because it won’t be accomplished.

In general, when it comes to fiction, the reader wants to be entertained. They want to be excited, amazed, thrilled. They want to feel worry, romance, wonder. They want to be diverted from their humdrum existence into something different. They want to have characters they can care about in situations that cause them to worry and then have that worry resolved in a satisfying way.

In short, they want _stories_. Create stories. Get them to read. And then any other goals you might have can be slipped in.

From my novelette Oruk Means Hard Work.

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Elara, Princess of the Elves, has been captured by orcs.  Now their prisoner, she has been assigned to one of their women and given a thin pad and blanket to sleep her first night in their caves.

An orc woman woke Elara sometime later. “Grintak, olf. Jang oruk ven. Jang oruk ven.”

Elara curled into a tight ball in the thin blanket.

The orc woman delivered a swat to Elara’s backside that stung even through the blanket. “Grintak!”

Elara uncurled and poked her head out of the blanket. The air was chill and she wanted to go back to huddling in the blanket, but the stern expression on the orc woman’s face stopped her.

The orc woman held a bowl and spoon out to Elara. “Kurok shash. Jang oruk ven. Jang oruk ven mak.”

Elara nodded and took the bowl. “Kurok,” she said.

The bowl contained a strange soup or porridge. Small bits had a spongy texture and a slightly sharp taste. Mixed in with the bits were small pieces of strange meat. Elara did not like the taste but the porridge soon filled the hole in her belly.

When she finished, the orc woman directed Elara to where several orc children were scraping any leftover porridge into buckets and scrubbing the bowls and spoons with sand. Elara left the bowl and spoon with them and followed the woman to where several other orcs were working at large tubs.

Orcs brought in baskets of small, brightly colored bits and dumped them into the tubs, then others picked up large wooden mallets pounded on the bits.

The woman led Elara to one of the tubs, freshly filled with the colored bits, mushrooms and other fungus Elara could now see. The woman pointed to one of the mallets and said, “Oruk.”

Fearfully, Elara took the mallet and tried to lift it. It was very heavy. She winced as the effort pressed against her bandaged hand, sending pain shooting up her arm.

The orc woman grabbed Elara’s wrist and pulled it up, turning Elara’s hand to peer down at the palm. “Kek jang thok?” She peeled the bandage from Elara’s hand, then clucked. “Engthul.” She looked down at Elara and bared her teeth in an expression Elara thought was meant to be a smile. “Jang te engthul akkagh.”

Timidly, Elara said, “Jang te engthul akkagh.”

The orc woman laughed and nodded vigorously. “Jang te engthul akkagh.” She stood and beckoned Elara to follow her. “Azg bet.”

The orc woman led Elara to a small tent from which an incredibly ancient orc emerged. The orc looked at Elara’s palm and spread a greasy salve over it that stung but soon eased the pain, then wrapped a cloth around it. He and the orc woman conferred in voices too low for Elara to hear.

The orc woman nodded, then led Elara back to where the others were pounding the mushrooms and handed her a basket. “Jang oruk. Azg bet.”

Elara, carrying the basket, followed the orc woman out into the caves and began to gather the small mushrooms and shelf fungi that grew on the damp wall.

Throughout, the orc woman kept up a continuous chatter.

#

The work was hard, but not harder than Elara could bear. Before the basket was full, while Elara could still lift it without straining her cut hand, the orc woman took her back to where the orcs had been working at large tubs. She had Elara dump the bits of fungus into the tubs where other orcs pounded it with the large mallets. Then the orc woman led her back into the caves to gather more fungus.

After several such trips into the caves and back, the orc woman led Elara to a kitchen and gave her another bowl of the porridge she had eaten that morning and sat down next to Elara with a bowl of her own. After the meal, the orc woman took Elara’s hand and turned it palm up. She peeled back the cloth wrapping slightly, then shook her head. “Kek jang lug?”

Elara shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

The orc woman pursed her lips then pressed her thumb firmly against the cut, making Elara squirm. “Lug.”

Lug, Elara thought, that must mean pain. They were going to give her pain if she didn’t work; was that it? She shook her head.

The orc woman shook her head, then said again, ending on a rising tone, “Kek jang lug?” She moved as if to press her thumb against Elara’s palm again. “Jang lug,” the orc woman said. She released Elara’s hand and held hers up. “Jang shek lug.” The orc woman held her hands, palm up, to either side of Elara’s cut hand and said, “Kek jang lug?”

Understanding at last. The orc woman was asking if her hand hurt. Elara shook her hand and said, “Jang shek lug.”

The orc woman nodded. “Jang morg.”

Elara and the orc woman took the bowls to be cleaned and went back to collecting mushrooms. After more time working, they stopped to eat again. This time, in addition to the porridge, Elara was given small pieces of meat — Elara could not tell from what animal — and a small bowl of sweet pudding. She looked up at the orc woman on seeing this bounty.

“Bak nik te morg oruk,” the woman said. “Kurok.”

Food eaten, the orc woman led Elara to a set of pools near the bottom of the cavern. She shied back as she saw other orcs there, stripping their clothing off and wading into the pools. The orc woman, however, grabbed her hand and pulled, setting her firmly at the side of one of the smaller pools. The orc woman pulled her rough shift over her head revealing the thickset muscular body underneath. A moment later Elara almost screamed as the orc woman stripped her clothes from her, leaving her naked in the midst of orcs. Only the thought that no one would answer her screams kept her silent.

None of the other orcs paid any attention as the orc woman drew Elara into the pool. This time Elara did yelp. The water was cold!  Still, the orc woman pulled her deeper into the water.

Near the center of the pool the water was about knee deep. The orc woman stooped and came up with a handful of sand that she proceeded to rub vigorously over Elara’s body. After a couple of swipes, she let the sand drop and pointed to Elara.

Elara nodded and stooped to reach the bottom of the pool. Before her hand could touch the water, however, the orc woman’s hand intercepted it. She turned Elara’s hand palm up, pointed at the bandage wrapped around it and shook her head. She pointed at the other hand, then down at the pool.

Elara nodded again and proceeded to scrub her body with the abrasive white sand, keeping her injured hand carefully out of the water.

Crude bathing completed, the orc woman then led Elara back to the pad on which she had slept. “Nem nem. Jang oruk vek mak.”

Elara lay on the pad and wrapped herself in the thin blanket. She could not sleep. Instead, in moments, tears had soaked her cheeks. She was a slave of these orcs. That was what her life was to be, to be a slave. Nobody would find her here. She would live as a slave and she would die as a slave.

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Life among the orcs is hard.  So difficult and ubiquitous is brutal labor among them that “Veth oruk”/”Work is” is their most common greeting.  When Elara, princess of the elves is captured and enslaved by them that is the life she must learn to live, a life of hard, unremitting labor with no hope of rescue.

Work is.

A commenter (read “Troll”) on Sarah Hoyt’s blog in the course of his posts made a statement about determining “who controls society”.

After much facepalming, I replied.  I expand a bit on that reply here.

I don’t know why I try, but I essay:

This statement here shows such a profound ignorance that you can’t even ask meaningful questions. It’s a null statement. There is no answer to it as worded. It assumes a strict hierarchy that totalitarian regimes may approach but that never actually achieve.

Consider the barnyard example of a “pecking order” among chickens.  This is a common grade-school example of heirarchy. Anyone who actually knows chickens knows that this is laughable. It’s not a hierarchical order but a collection of interacting relationships.

Likewise with canids. People talk about the “alpha wolf” the “beta” and so on down to the last one. (Fortunately, for people making these assertions, wolf packs generally don’t get large enough that they run out of Greek letters.)

Look, I’m a “dog person”. When I acquire a new dog, the dogs among them will establish their own internal dominance structures. However, despite the fact that I am “alpha” to all the previous dogs (I have to be since the dogs have to exist in mutual safety in human society) I still have to establish my individual dominance over the new dog even if it is subordinate to the other dogs. Individual relationships, not a fixed hierarchy.   For example, “Hachi” is subordinate to me. We get the new dog“Trunks”. (My daughter gave them their names.) Trunks is subordinate to Hachi. (Hachi’s got real attitude–Bolt, the Pit Bull mix twice her weight is subordinate to her.) This does not mean that Trunks will automatically be subordinate to me just because I “rank” over Hachi. I have to establish that separately. And, incidentally, were I to fail to do so (purely a hypothetical in this case) that would not mean that Hachi, dominant over Trunks, would automatically become dominant over me. “Dominance loops” can, and in fact, do, exist.

Thus, the whole idea of “who controls society” does not, and indeed cannot have an answer. It’s like asking “how high is up”, or asking a person not affected with synesthesia what the color blue smells like (not a blue object, but the color itself).

Consider for instance how this works in the case of fashion. In China for a long time foot binding was a fashion. A horrible, horrible fashion. This is often described as being something imposed by men on women to force subervience on them. (After all, traditional Chinese culture was strongly patriarchal–few would dispute that–so of course, the men have to be the ones dictating this.)

When I was in college, I had to take two courses, 6 credit hours, in “World Civilizations”.  One of the courses I took covered China.  One of the texts we used was the book  “Wild Swans”, a biographical account of three generations of Chinese women spanning pretty much the 20th century (and was used as a text in the “China” class in World Civilizations in college) describes the last generation to practice foot binding (while Manchuria, which did not practice foot binding ruled over the rest of China). It wasn’t the men imposing it. It was imposed by other women.

Note, the ruling Manchurian dynasty did not practice foot binding.  Yet Chinese women, of other ethnicities within China nevertheless enforced it on their daughters.  It was not a “patriarchy” imposing this on women, but women imposing it on each other.

Likewise with more mundane fashion choices. Men pretty much don’t care. At most men will be interested in whether or not the fashion shows off the female form because, for evolutionary reasons, men tend to highly approve of the female form. No.  Fashion choices and the impositions thereof are driven almost entirely by pressure between and among women. (Yes, many fashion designers are men–but much of that crap they go down the runway with is never actually worn in public. It’s more “performance art” than actual fashion.)

Most of the pressures placed on women in modern Western society are placed their by other women for the ostensible benefit of those other women. Men don’t control that. They may try to grab hold for the ride, but the control is firmly in women’s hands.

Indeed, one can also argue that many of the pressures on men are put on them by women for the benefit of women and children.

Consider the various mating rituals in the animal kingdom. The brilliant plumage and mating dances of male birds. The “fights” of rutting bucks. A lot of people naively think that this competition is a display of male dominance.  Exactly the opposite is the case.

These things are designed to impress the female because it’s. the. female. that. chooses. While the male activity is more visible the actual power lies with the female.

Likewise with many of the things that people claim are “patriarchal” in American society. They are actually aspects of female power and female choice. And even there, it’s a matter of individual issues with multiple subgroups.

Consider, I’m Goth (well, perhaps “Goth-lite”). Among many folk that would automatically make me lower in their personal heirarchy simply from my choices of style, appreciation of the dark, and liking for music with dissonant tones and dark subject matter. On the other hand, I can show up at a major business, deal with businessmen in their three-piece suites and short, parted on the left hair while I’m dressed in black T’s and jeans, long black hair with a purple streak pulled into a pony tail, and black painted nails and they don’t say “boo”. Because I bring something to them that they can’t do and they know it. (BTW: if you have a Blu-Ray player, you’re welcome.)  People tell me that tailored suit and tie makes a person look powerful.  People paying me to come fix their problems in my T-shirt, jeans, and pony tail?  That, my friend, is power.  And yet, the same people who come to me for help and pay the rather substantial fees my boss charges for it would have no problem disparaging me in a different context because their conventional style is considered higher status than my “looks like a freak”.

There is no one who “controls society”. It’s a lot of individual interconnections and relationships that are always changing, not just over time but with context, a chaotic system at best which cannot be predicted, much less controlled.