pure wool, pretty wool
Jan. 6th, 2008 03:05 amExcellent if tiring day today. Took advantage of a tip from
bexfiles and checked out a yarn shop that's due to close in a fortnight or so, and picked up some rather nice pure wool yarn at a penny a gram. (All right, so that comes out at a pound per hundred-gram-ball, but the shopkeeper was quoting it as "a penny a gram" and that sounded neat.) Also picked up a couple of books I wanted elsewhere in town, including Stross' The Jennifer Morgue. Good stuff all round.
Really must index/file my knitting magazines and yarn stash.
---
"Really?" asks the woman. "Are you sure it's all over?"
Billington glances at her. "Pretty much, apart from a few little details -- mass human sacrifices, invocations of chthonic demigods, Richter-ten earthquakes, harrowing of the Deep Ones, rains of meteors, and the creation of a thousand-year world empire, that sort of thing. Trivial, really. Yes, it's all nailed down, dear. Why do you ask?"
"I was curious: Does it mean we're safe from any risk that the Hero-designate playing the archetypical role is going to leap out of the shadows, armed to the teeth with specialized lethal hardware, and wreck all our plans?"
Billington begins to turn. "Yes, of course. Why are you worrying about --"
To my necromancy-stunned eyes it all seems to happen in very slow motion. Her clenched fist unclenches: a bone-colored bow drops down her sleeve like a concealed cosh until she grips it by one end and brings her hand up to unlatch the briefcase. Both sides of the case eject, leaving her clutching a handle and a sling attached to a pale violin that she raises to her chin in a smooth motion that speaks of long practice. The halves of the case contain compact amplified speakers, and there's a stark black-on-yellow sticker on the underside of the violin: THIS MACHINE KILLS DEMONS.
-- The Jennifer Morgue, Charles Stross
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Really must index/file my knitting magazines and yarn stash.
---
"Really?" asks the woman. "Are you sure it's all over?"
Billington glances at her. "Pretty much, apart from a few little details -- mass human sacrifices, invocations of chthonic demigods, Richter-ten earthquakes, harrowing of the Deep Ones, rains of meteors, and the creation of a thousand-year world empire, that sort of thing. Trivial, really. Yes, it's all nailed down, dear. Why do you ask?"
"I was curious: Does it mean we're safe from any risk that the Hero-designate playing the archetypical role is going to leap out of the shadows, armed to the teeth with specialized lethal hardware, and wreck all our plans?"
Billington begins to turn. "Yes, of course. Why are you worrying about --"
To my necromancy-stunned eyes it all seems to happen in very slow motion. Her clenched fist unclenches: a bone-colored bow drops down her sleeve like a concealed cosh until she grips it by one end and brings her hand up to unlatch the briefcase. Both sides of the case eject, leaving her clutching a handle and a sling attached to a pale violin that she raises to her chin in a smooth motion that speaks of long practice. The halves of the case contain compact amplified speakers, and there's a stark black-on-yellow sticker on the underside of the violin: THIS MACHINE KILLS DEMONS.
-- The Jennifer Morgue, Charles Stross