mina_de_malfois (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mina_de_malfois) wrote2006-06-20 11:13 am
mina_de_malfois) wrote2006-06-20 11:13 am
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8. Mina de Malfois and the Honey’d Briar (part two)
[This update comes a little early, but I think we’re all feeling slightly flat today, and could use something to smile at. This, then, is dedicated to my darling ‘Charlotte,’ for lancing old wounds in an effort to heal them, and to those who were hurt along the way.]
Bonus vir nemo est nisi qui bonus est omnibus.
No one is a good man unless he is good to all.
Disclaimer: Mina de Malfois is an original fictional creation. These stories and characters are the sole property of the author, but she lends them out for fanfic and fanart. This is a work of fiction. No resemblance is intended to any person or persons living, dead, or online. No BNFs were harmed in the making of this fic.
When next we were all logged in, the Honey’d Briar was nudging her way into a sandy cove on a small, forested island. Birds sang cheery, exotic songs as Arc secured the ship, loaded us up with game-goods, and directed us across the sand to the edge of the forest.
‘We should establish a base camp,’ she said, so when we reached a likely looking clearing we set to. I’d figured that, for established former Girl Scouts such as Capt. Arc and Xena, pitching a few tents would be the work of a moment,1 and I wasn’t wrong. While they did that, I busied myself gathering firewood, and the Elizabeths stood around giggling and occasionally twirling to make their gowns billow out gracefully. I longed for a few good crossover avatars, maybe some Trek-inspired red shirts, but I supposed we’d have to make do with what we had.
‘Now,’ Arc said seriously, ‘everybody take note of where the base camp is, and pay attention to what direction we move in. We have no idea who inhabits this island, or what might happen. If we get separated, head back to the base camp. Got that?’
‘Aye, aye, Capt.,’ Xena said, saluting. I nodded. The Elizabeths giggled and hugged each other. We set out along the trail, single file, with Xena in the lead. She’d insisted, citing combat points and strength, and Arc had agreed. I guess a good captain has to be familiar with the particular skills and strengths of each of her crew.
Eventually the trail led to a sign, beyond which we could see a kind of village of about a dozen buildings, each one equipped with a flagpole bearing a coloured sweater or shirt. Odd. I looked at the sign for explanation. ‘The Cult of the Gay Unicorn,’ it read.2
‘I’ve heard of these people,’ Arc muttered.
‘Think they’re likely to shelter the Jammies?’ Xena asked.
Arc nodded. ‘I suspect they’d see it as their duty,’ she said grimly, and indicated we should follow her.
We’d scarcely stepped out of cover of the forest when two sentry-women came forward. ‘Are you with P.R.?’ one demanded. ‘Are you the Powers That Be?’
‘No, no,’ Arc assured her. ‘We’re just from fandom. We’re looking for another ship, one with lavender sails and a pyjama-clad crew.’
‘What message is in the pyjamas?’ asked another woman curiously, stepping forwards. Soon a cluster of inquisitive cultists surrounded us.
‘Er...no message that I’m aware of,’ Xena answered, obviously puzzled.
‘Can you not read the signs?’ a pretty young cultist asked her, playfully, and the others laughed merrily.
‘Tell us about the Gay Unicorn,’ Arc suggested, sounding like a seasoned anthropologist. ‘We are not familiar with your beliefs.’
‘They are not just ‘beliefs’!’ one cultist corrected her. ‘He really is a gay unicorn!’
‘So very gay!’ her fellow cultists sighed happily.
‘He’s your totem animal?’ I asked, confused.
‘He is our God,’ said the pretty one, addressing herself largely to Xena for some reason. ‘He is the most perfect young man ever to exist. He shines like the stars, and is as graceful as a fawn, and as elusive as a bunny rabbit made of moonbeams!’
‘Okay,’ said Xena, looking mildly alarmed, and who could blame her. ‘And...he doesn’t like women at all?’
‘Oh, no,’ the pretty cultist assured her, clinging to her arm. ‘He has female friends, but he doesn’t like them sexually.’
‘He’s too gay!’ shrieked the cultic chorus, in a kind of queer ecstasy.
‘They’re just to throw those who hunt him off the track,’ continued the pretty cultist.
‘So very gay!’ the others shrieked again.
‘Het is but a mask and a seeming,’ intoned one of the sentries.
The other responded in the same flat, rhythmic chant. ‘And femmeslash is an abomination.’
Xena looked ready to slug someone. ‘Does he ever visit the island?’ Arc asked, by way of changing the subj.
‘No!’ they chanted. ‘He sends us signs, but does not speak to us directly. They prevent him!’
‘He’ll never notice us,’ one of them assured us with goggle-eyed fervour. ‘We are as worms beneath his feet.’
Arc and Xena exchanged concerned glances. ‘Er...perhaps someday he’ll notice you,’ Xena said, speaking pretty mildly by her standards, given the circs. I could tell she was trying to offer them some hope, but it was a wasted effort.
‘Imagine if he did notice us!’ a nearby cultist moaned.
‘It would be awful,’ sobbed another. ‘We are not worthy of his notice!’
‘We are imperfect!’ yelled the one nearest us. ‘We will never regain the perfection that is his!’
‘Imperfect!’ they all moaned in chorus, and, as if on cue, they all produced silver floggers and began to flagellate themselves enthusiastically. Arc looked on resignedly, and Xena merely looked sickened, but I don’t mind admitting I lost my head completely. The Elizabeths and I screamed in horror. One of the Elizabeths clutched my arm in her panic, and in a momentary comradeship born of terror I clutched hers back, and when the two of us eventually stopped running we were back at the base camp. We let go of each other, embarrassed.
‘That was ghastly,’ the Elizabeth burst out. I nodded.
‘We should try to get a fire going,’ I suggested, striving for practicality. Something about the grisly madness of the cultists made me want to be all useful and well grounded.
When we had the campfire blazing, and our avatars were huddled comfortably near it for warmth and security, I glanced over at the Elizabeth. She was, it struck me now, a person. Well, sort of a person. More of a person than those bloody cultists, anyway. I decided to try talking to her.
‘So, I’m guessing you like some person or character named Elizabeth?’ I tried. To my alarm her eyes filled with tears.
‘Not really,’ she said bitterly. ‘I hated her, really. Her character is silly and useless and overdressed.’ I looked silently at the ball gown and pearls the Elizabeth’s avatar was wearing, but said nothing. I didn’t have to. The Elizabeth went on, resting her head against her knees, ‘I resented her for being so pretty, and I criticized her for being helpless and unrealistic. I always said that Elizabeth wouldn’t really have been able to fire a gun.’
I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. If I followed the thread of her argument, she’d created her avatar to look exactly like someone she hated for being pretty and useless. ‘Can you fire a gun?’ I asked, cautiously. I mean, maybe her loathing stemmed from her skill as a real-life target shooter, or something.
‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘I can’t do anything. I’m useless. In real life, I’m every bit as useless as Elizabeth. I’m as bad as those cult people.’
‘Come, come,’ I said, and with sincerity. ‘You can’t possibly be. There must be lots of things you can do.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ she pointed out. ‘You can write. That’s at least a sort of talent.’
There was no arguing with that, though it seemed to me she understated the matter, but still, I wanted this girl to feel better. For some reason her plight touched me deeply. ‘You, uh, you must have a good eye for fashion,’ I suggested, groping wildly for something to praise. ‘You made that dress for your avatar.’
‘I copied it,’ she said dully, and sighed heavily. There seemed no more to say, though I wished I could think of something. The thing was, I rather knew how she felt. The sight of the Gay Unicorn Cultists in action filled me with a kind of desire to be a more useful, practical, down to earth person than I’d ever been before. The minute the others show up and we log off for the night, I promised myself, I’m going to clean the old apartment top to bottom, and get everything ship-shape and organized for once.
Eventually Arc and Xena strolled into camp. ‘We searched their community,’ Arc said exhaustedly, putting the kettle on to boil, ‘and they aren’t hiding Warr1or or the Jammies. They did let it slip that the other side of the island is inhabited by their mortal enemies, so we’ll search there next time.’
‘Where are the other two Elizabeths?’ I demanded, wishing I’d bothered before now to give them nicknames or something. Somehow the cultists’ self-effacement made me feel uncomfortable dismissing the Elizabeths as just Elizabeths, even if they were silly, ouija-board-wearing Ciyerra-supporting fangirls.
Xena grinned. ‘Probably over among the enemies,’ she said. ‘They bolted pretty fast, but in the wrong direction.’
I pondered. ‘So, who are these enemies?’ I asked. If they were the sworn enemies of the Cult of the Gay Unicorn, it seemed to me they stood a good chance of being sound, reliable people.
Arc frowned slightly, looking thoughtful. ‘Some group calling themselves the Cult of the Tented Tartan,’ she said.3
Footnotes:
1. Tent jokes ahoy. Sorry about that: tent jokes make me snicker.
2. Some of you may have noticed that the Cult of the Gay Unicorn resemble these folk (and thanks are in order tonarcissam for compiling that wiki entry). In a larger sense, they also stand for het/femmeslash-hating slashers.
3. Inspiration for the Cult of the Tented, oh dear, Tartan comes from these people. And these people. And these people. And rabidly-het fangirls in general.
Disclaimer: Mina de Malfois is an original fictional creation. These stories and characters are the sole property of the author, but she lends them out for fanfic and fanart. This is a work of fiction. No resemblance is intended to any person or persons living, dead, or online. No BNFs were harmed in the making of this fic.
When next we were all logged in, the Honey’d Briar was nudging her way into a sandy cove on a small, forested island. Birds sang cheery, exotic songs as Arc secured the ship, loaded us up with game-goods, and directed us across the sand to the edge of the forest.
‘We should establish a base camp,’ she said, so when we reached a likely looking clearing we set to. I’d figured that, for established former Girl Scouts such as Capt. Arc and Xena, pitching a few tents would be the work of a moment,1 and I wasn’t wrong. While they did that, I busied myself gathering firewood, and the Elizabeths stood around giggling and occasionally twirling to make their gowns billow out gracefully. I longed for a few good crossover avatars, maybe some Trek-inspired red shirts, but I supposed we’d have to make do with what we had.
‘Now,’ Arc said seriously, ‘everybody take note of where the base camp is, and pay attention to what direction we move in. We have no idea who inhabits this island, or what might happen. If we get separated, head back to the base camp. Got that?’
‘Aye, aye, Capt.,’ Xena said, saluting. I nodded. The Elizabeths giggled and hugged each other. We set out along the trail, single file, with Xena in the lead. She’d insisted, citing combat points and strength, and Arc had agreed. I guess a good captain has to be familiar with the particular skills and strengths of each of her crew.
Eventually the trail led to a sign, beyond which we could see a kind of village of about a dozen buildings, each one equipped with a flagpole bearing a coloured sweater or shirt. Odd. I looked at the sign for explanation. ‘The Cult of the Gay Unicorn,’ it read.2
‘I’ve heard of these people,’ Arc muttered.
‘Think they’re likely to shelter the Jammies?’ Xena asked.
Arc nodded. ‘I suspect they’d see it as their duty,’ she said grimly, and indicated we should follow her.
We’d scarcely stepped out of cover of the forest when two sentry-women came forward. ‘Are you with P.R.?’ one demanded. ‘Are you the Powers That Be?’
‘No, no,’ Arc assured her. ‘We’re just from fandom. We’re looking for another ship, one with lavender sails and a pyjama-clad crew.’
‘What message is in the pyjamas?’ asked another woman curiously, stepping forwards. Soon a cluster of inquisitive cultists surrounded us.
‘Er...no message that I’m aware of,’ Xena answered, obviously puzzled.
‘Can you not read the signs?’ a pretty young cultist asked her, playfully, and the others laughed merrily.
‘Tell us about the Gay Unicorn,’ Arc suggested, sounding like a seasoned anthropologist. ‘We are not familiar with your beliefs.’
‘They are not just ‘beliefs’!’ one cultist corrected her. ‘He really is a gay unicorn!’
‘So very gay!’ her fellow cultists sighed happily.
‘He’s your totem animal?’ I asked, confused.
‘He is our God,’ said the pretty one, addressing herself largely to Xena for some reason. ‘He is the most perfect young man ever to exist. He shines like the stars, and is as graceful as a fawn, and as elusive as a bunny rabbit made of moonbeams!’
‘Okay,’ said Xena, looking mildly alarmed, and who could blame her. ‘And...he doesn’t like women at all?’
‘Oh, no,’ the pretty cultist assured her, clinging to her arm. ‘He has female friends, but he doesn’t like them sexually.’
‘He’s too gay!’ shrieked the cultic chorus, in a kind of queer ecstasy.
‘They’re just to throw those who hunt him off the track,’ continued the pretty cultist.
‘So very gay!’ the others shrieked again.
‘Het is but a mask and a seeming,’ intoned one of the sentries.
The other responded in the same flat, rhythmic chant. ‘And femmeslash is an abomination.’
Xena looked ready to slug someone. ‘Does he ever visit the island?’ Arc asked, by way of changing the subj.
‘No!’ they chanted. ‘He sends us signs, but does not speak to us directly. They prevent him!’
‘He’ll never notice us,’ one of them assured us with goggle-eyed fervour. ‘We are as worms beneath his feet.’
Arc and Xena exchanged concerned glances. ‘Er...perhaps someday he’ll notice you,’ Xena said, speaking pretty mildly by her standards, given the circs. I could tell she was trying to offer them some hope, but it was a wasted effort.
‘Imagine if he did notice us!’ a nearby cultist moaned.
‘It would be awful,’ sobbed another. ‘We are not worthy of his notice!’
‘We are imperfect!’ yelled the one nearest us. ‘We will never regain the perfection that is his!’
‘Imperfect!’ they all moaned in chorus, and, as if on cue, they all produced silver floggers and began to flagellate themselves enthusiastically. Arc looked on resignedly, and Xena merely looked sickened, but I don’t mind admitting I lost my head completely. The Elizabeths and I screamed in horror. One of the Elizabeths clutched my arm in her panic, and in a momentary comradeship born of terror I clutched hers back, and when the two of us eventually stopped running we were back at the base camp. We let go of each other, embarrassed.
‘That was ghastly,’ the Elizabeth burst out. I nodded.
‘We should try to get a fire going,’ I suggested, striving for practicality. Something about the grisly madness of the cultists made me want to be all useful and well grounded.
When we had the campfire blazing, and our avatars were huddled comfortably near it for warmth and security, I glanced over at the Elizabeth. She was, it struck me now, a person. Well, sort of a person. More of a person than those bloody cultists, anyway. I decided to try talking to her.
‘So, I’m guessing you like some person or character named Elizabeth?’ I tried. To my alarm her eyes filled with tears.
‘Not really,’ she said bitterly. ‘I hated her, really. Her character is silly and useless and overdressed.’ I looked silently at the ball gown and pearls the Elizabeth’s avatar was wearing, but said nothing. I didn’t have to. The Elizabeth went on, resting her head against her knees, ‘I resented her for being so pretty, and I criticized her for being helpless and unrealistic. I always said that Elizabeth wouldn’t really have been able to fire a gun.’
I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. If I followed the thread of her argument, she’d created her avatar to look exactly like someone she hated for being pretty and useless. ‘Can you fire a gun?’ I asked, cautiously. I mean, maybe her loathing stemmed from her skill as a real-life target shooter, or something.
‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘I can’t do anything. I’m useless. In real life, I’m every bit as useless as Elizabeth. I’m as bad as those cult people.’
‘Come, come,’ I said, and with sincerity. ‘You can’t possibly be. There must be lots of things you can do.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ she pointed out. ‘You can write. That’s at least a sort of talent.’
There was no arguing with that, though it seemed to me she understated the matter, but still, I wanted this girl to feel better. For some reason her plight touched me deeply. ‘You, uh, you must have a good eye for fashion,’ I suggested, groping wildly for something to praise. ‘You made that dress for your avatar.’
‘I copied it,’ she said dully, and sighed heavily. There seemed no more to say, though I wished I could think of something. The thing was, I rather knew how she felt. The sight of the Gay Unicorn Cultists in action filled me with a kind of desire to be a more useful, practical, down to earth person than I’d ever been before. The minute the others show up and we log off for the night, I promised myself, I’m going to clean the old apartment top to bottom, and get everything ship-shape and organized for once.
Eventually Arc and Xena strolled into camp. ‘We searched their community,’ Arc said exhaustedly, putting the kettle on to boil, ‘and they aren’t hiding Warr1or or the Jammies. They did let it slip that the other side of the island is inhabited by their mortal enemies, so we’ll search there next time.’
‘Where are the other two Elizabeths?’ I demanded, wishing I’d bothered before now to give them nicknames or something. Somehow the cultists’ self-effacement made me feel uncomfortable dismissing the Elizabeths as just Elizabeths, even if they were silly, ouija-board-wearing Ciyerra-supporting fangirls.
Xena grinned. ‘Probably over among the enemies,’ she said. ‘They bolted pretty fast, but in the wrong direction.’
I pondered. ‘So, who are these enemies?’ I asked. If they were the sworn enemies of the Cult of the Gay Unicorn, it seemed to me they stood a good chance of being sound, reliable people.
Arc frowned slightly, looking thoughtful. ‘Some group calling themselves the Cult of the Tented Tartan,’ she said.3
Footnotes:
1. Tent jokes ahoy. Sorry about that: tent jokes make me snicker.
2. Some of you may have noticed that the Cult of the Gay Unicorn resemble these folk (and thanks are in order to
narcissam for compiling that wiki entry). In a larger sense, they also stand for het/femmeslash-hating slashers.3. Inspiration for the Cult of the Tented, oh dear, Tartan comes from these people. And these people. And these people. And rabidly-het fangirls in general.