Angela’s answer to “Will there be a Sentinels book 4?” > Likes and Comments
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Yay :D
:D
Keeping in mind that this could end up completely trashed before I'm done, here's the current opener:
===========
Rory Ellison ignored the muttered cursing coming from the desk in the far corner of the shabby living room and turned up the volume on his iPod. The apartment he shared with his boyfriend Paul had two bedrooms, but the second one was currently back-filled with all the stuff Rory'd moved in with. The one they used as a bedroom was full of a king size bed, two small nightstands and an overflowing dresser. Most activities besides sleeping and sex happened in the living room, which felt small with Paul's desk wedged into it. Cardboard boxes stacked up against the walls obscured a Hildebrandt Star Wars poster on one wall, and a framed map of London in 1770 on another.
Anything business-ish Rory needed to do, he did on the couch. They were looking for a bigger place to move into -- one with room for two desks, and enough wall space for at least a dozen bookcases -- but at the moment they were both making do.
He flipped through the San Jose State University catalog and tried to figure out what to take, what to do with the rest of his life, now that he was free to do whatever he wanted with it for the first time ever. So many possibilities, so many majors and minors and classes -- how did anyone ever figure out what to do, how to decide? How did eighteen-year-olds ever figure it out?
Rory knew he wasn't the most mature person in the world in some ways -- spending your entire adult life dealing with a diagnosis of psychosis and trusting everyone else's judgement over your own, living under the smothering care of a psychiatrist who thought you were delusional and a mother determined to... well, he still hadn't figured out exactly what his mother'd been trying to do.
But he'd crawled out from under her thumb -- their thumbs -- finally, and for the first time in his life the important decisions were all his, including the decision to make a decision.
Which was weird for someone who was twenty-eight years old, but life was weird and Rory was dealing with it as well as he could.
Paul finally erupted out of the corner and went stomping into the kitchen with his coffee mug.
"Done?" called Rory.
Paul snarled something incomprehensible. He looked like the kind of guy who'd put his fist through a wall when he was angry, tall and tough looking, in good shape without being cut like a bodybuilder. He wore a black leather jacket all the time -- even when he went to bed, it was within arm's reach -- but what really made people stare was all his jewelry. The front of his jacket was covered in little pins, kind of like the ones people swapped at the Olympics, but but with all different kinds of little thingies on them. Rings, bracelets, earrings and studs in both ears, a pierced eyebrow, and half a dozen necklaces, one of which Rory thought of as a charm necklace because it had another dozen little thingies hanging from it.
Despite not having any magic of his own, Paul led a team of Sentinels, humans who protected regular people from monsters, fey, and human mages who weren't always ethical about how they used their magic. Or who were just stupid about it, even if they meant well. Every one of Paul's chains and studs and dealies was magical. Each one gave him the equivalent of a spell he could cast, and together they gave him enough power to fight an Elven king to a stand-still in his own court. Looking like a fashion emergency who'd just had a bad accident at a flea market jewelry stand was the price he paid for that power, and for the most part, people didn't hassle him about it, even though he got a lot of stares.
When he and Paul had first gotten together, they'd joked that Rory's mother, who'd obviously disliked Paul at first sight, probably thought he cooked drugs in his bathtub, just because of his look.
Rory put his iPod on the side table and the catalog in his lap, and waited for Paul to come out with coffee before asking again. "Done? Okay? Sucky? Sending your answer back to New York with an ogre as the messenger?"
That got a laugh out of Paul, and Rory chalked up a mental point.
==============
Who knows, you (and anyone else who reads this here) might be the only other person to EVER read this bit. :) We'll see how it goes.
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Idamus
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Jul 15, 2014 04:54AM
Yay :D
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:DKeeping in mind that this could end up completely trashed before I'm done, here's the current opener:
===========
Rory Ellison ignored the muttered cursing coming from the desk in the far corner of the shabby living room and turned up the volume on his iPod. The apartment he shared with his boyfriend Paul had two bedrooms, but the second one was currently back-filled with all the stuff Rory'd moved in with. The one they used as a bedroom was full of a king size bed, two small nightstands and an overflowing dresser. Most activities besides sleeping and sex happened in the living room, which felt small with Paul's desk wedged into it. Cardboard boxes stacked up against the walls obscured a Hildebrandt Star Wars poster on one wall, and a framed map of London in 1770 on another.
Anything business-ish Rory needed to do, he did on the couch. They were looking for a bigger place to move into -- one with room for two desks, and enough wall space for at least a dozen bookcases -- but at the moment they were both making do.
He flipped through the San Jose State University catalog and tried to figure out what to take, what to do with the rest of his life, now that he was free to do whatever he wanted with it for the first time ever. So many possibilities, so many majors and minors and classes -- how did anyone ever figure out what to do, how to decide? How did eighteen-year-olds ever figure it out?
Rory knew he wasn't the most mature person in the world in some ways -- spending your entire adult life dealing with a diagnosis of psychosis and trusting everyone else's judgement over your own, living under the smothering care of a psychiatrist who thought you were delusional and a mother determined to... well, he still hadn't figured out exactly what his mother'd been trying to do.
But he'd crawled out from under her thumb -- their thumbs -- finally, and for the first time in his life the important decisions were all his, including the decision to make a decision.
Which was weird for someone who was twenty-eight years old, but life was weird and Rory was dealing with it as well as he could.
Paul finally erupted out of the corner and went stomping into the kitchen with his coffee mug.
"Done?" called Rory.
Paul snarled something incomprehensible. He looked like the kind of guy who'd put his fist through a wall when he was angry, tall and tough looking, in good shape without being cut like a bodybuilder. He wore a black leather jacket all the time -- even when he went to bed, it was within arm's reach -- but what really made people stare was all his jewelry. The front of his jacket was covered in little pins, kind of like the ones people swapped at the Olympics, but but with all different kinds of little thingies on them. Rings, bracelets, earrings and studs in both ears, a pierced eyebrow, and half a dozen necklaces, one of which Rory thought of as a charm necklace because it had another dozen little thingies hanging from it.
Despite not having any magic of his own, Paul led a team of Sentinels, humans who protected regular people from monsters, fey, and human mages who weren't always ethical about how they used their magic. Or who were just stupid about it, even if they meant well. Every one of Paul's chains and studs and dealies was magical. Each one gave him the equivalent of a spell he could cast, and together they gave him enough power to fight an Elven king to a stand-still in his own court. Looking like a fashion emergency who'd just had a bad accident at a flea market jewelry stand was the price he paid for that power, and for the most part, people didn't hassle him about it, even though he got a lot of stares.
When he and Paul had first gotten together, they'd joked that Rory's mother, who'd obviously disliked Paul at first sight, probably thought he cooked drugs in his bathtub, just because of his look.
Rory put his iPod on the side table and the catalog in his lap, and waited for Paul to come out with coffee before asking again. "Done? Okay? Sucky? Sending your answer back to New York with an ogre as the messenger?"
That got a laugh out of Paul, and Rory chalked up a mental point.
==============
Who knows, you (and anyone else who reads this here) might be the only other person to EVER read this bit. :) We'll see how it goes.