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I odn't need another novel right now.

Sun and Moon rise and fall. Stars turn. Beneath the snow, the land awaits the coming spring.

Spirit of Sagittarius, fickle flame, I invite you to make your mark upon me, to burn away the veils that keep me from my best self and help me put the paths I'll never take to rest.

Xalki, reviewer, thank you for your standards. Your willingness to expect greatness encourages me to do the same. May I have the courage to hold myself in such high regard.

The Work Continues.

At this point, I'm literally nesting these layers three and four deep. I have one set of crystals -- and I do mean a set -- whose entire purpose is to purify the lab, establish aetheric tunnels with three public groves, and summons only those crystals from my private storehouse that I need for the second step. I don't even get to casting the actual spells I'm trying to cast until step two.

And yet, it feels at every turn as if there were an unseen intelligence following my will. At times it seems benign, cleverly interpreting my words when I unexpectedly say the right thing the first time. At times it seems dull-witted and slow, when I fail to explain myself clearly enough for it to make sense of my instruction. And yet at every stage, I'm the only one casting any spells, second-talon and via proxies. If the spell fizzles, it's my poor commands, not "the ritual's."

Progress at work. There's something thrilling -- and quietly terrifying -- in watching spells cast themselves, lines of power unfolding fractally from their housings. There's no intent to it, no intellect. I tell this crystal "draw this line relative to yourself, then that. Put this glyph here. Fetch that reagent from this shelf, deposit it on that space." And then after a thousand such small instructions, the scrying window opens, without me evoking it.

I love winter. The cold in the air makes everything feel crisp, clean, and fresh. It's like the whole world is being put through a gentle blessing, chasing off old knots of tangled intent. We're getting another chance to do it all right.

I hate winter. Even at this hour, the carriers are wing to wing cramped and smell vaguely of last night's overindulgences and blackwater fumes. If I wanted to smell that, I'd go to the office holiday party. At least my kit will be dry at work.

Want is it called the Amazon Coin, and not the Bezo?

Normally, the flight to work is a half-hour. Wyvernbight's thermals aren't very strong, and I'm not exactly the most graceful of beasts, but I can get from one spot to another without too much hassle.

When it rains, though, the skies become sodden spans of unpleasantness. Flying in the rain with dedicated ritual gear guarantees either four times the travel time or something not surviving the trip. I'm grateful for the carriers in these times, but Great Work are they cramped.

(( I suspect that if I were actually a mage, living in a magically active world, and that I could make a living off of my magical talents, I would be as bored of that as I am of IT and still want to stay home and write stories of fantastic alternate universes. ))

Ugh. Dry beak. Tastes like sand all the way down this morning. Did I try to chew crop-grit last night?

I bought a soda after two months cold. Nasty sour stuff. I don't like it, but it took care of the gumminess around the ceres.

LinkedIn is Pokémon for business.

"I'd like you to join my network" == "Get in the damned ball!"