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aldersprigWhat it says on the tin. FaeApoc.
Adham Alamerta knew the score.
He was a professor and student of history and anthropology, and he'd long ago learned to read between the lines of human history. He knew that, in the end, every god of humanity, every myth that had at one point been a god, every story that had been a myth, they had all come from glimpses or visions of his people. And that, in turn, most of his people would, at some point, become a god (though that was forbidden now), a myth, a story.
He had, in his lifetime, met other snake-people, those with scales or fangs or, sometimes, tails, but he had encountered only four other naga - his late wife, and three of their six children. And in all of his studies, he had found very few hints or rumors of more.
It became easy, with a monopoly on the field, as it were, and the degrees and publications to back him to set himself up as an expert, nay, the expert on Naga. When that nice young man from the role-playing company wanted to write a supplement about snake shape-shifters, he visited Adham, and Adham told him what he needed to know. When the lovely urban fantasy writer wanted to add Naga to the menagerie of her books, she came to Adham, and Adham taught her.
Others came - some who were of the fae, and had snake-changes, some who were not, and were doing research for this or that. If they had the eyes to see, he showed them; if they did not, Adham taught them what he could. He gained a reputation for being accurate, which he was, talkative, which he also was, and a little weird, which was probably just as true.
In part, all of this was true because he was alone. His children had grown up and left. His wife had died decades ago. He was left with his research, which consumed him, and those who came to him for his knowledge. It was no wonder he poured into those who came to him every bit of that information, and every bit of the attention he no longer had a family to share with.
So he told his story to the intern doing research for a sci-fi TV show, and the student of ancient myth and its interpretation in the modern era, and then for the quiet girl who only told him "I need to know about the nagi."
Her, too, he taught what he could, and because she seemed to have a spark about her, Adham pulled out some of his old sources and then, in the end, the family pictures. If she was truly human, they would be of nothing but humans to her sight.
The gasp told him all he needed to know. Or so he thought, until he turned around.
"Oh." Her tail filled in the rest of the story; her tears provided the punctuation.
Adham Alamerta knew the score.
He was a professor and student of history and anthropology, and he'd long ago learned to read between the lines of human history. He knew that, in the end, every god of humanity, every myth that had at one point been a god, every story that had been a myth, they had all come from glimpses or visions of his people. And that, in turn, most of his people would, at some point, become a god (though that was forbidden now), a myth, a story.
He had, in his lifetime, met other snake-people, those with scales or fangs or, sometimes, tails, but he had encountered only four other naga - his late wife, and three of their six children. And in all of his studies, he had found very few hints or rumors of more.
It became easy, with a monopoly on the field, as it were, and the degrees and publications to back him to set himself up as an expert, nay, the expert on Naga. When that nice young man from the role-playing company wanted to write a supplement about snake shape-shifters, he visited Adham, and Adham told him what he needed to know. When the lovely urban fantasy writer wanted to add Naga to the menagerie of her books, she came to Adham, and Adham taught her.
Others came - some who were of the fae, and had snake-changes, some who were not, and were doing research for this or that. If they had the eyes to see, he showed them; if they did not, Adham taught them what he could. He gained a reputation for being accurate, which he was, talkative, which he also was, and a little weird, which was probably just as true.
In part, all of this was true because he was alone. His children had grown up and left. His wife had died decades ago. He was left with his research, which consumed him, and those who came to him for his knowledge. It was no wonder he poured into those who came to him every bit of that information, and every bit of the attention he no longer had a family to share with.
So he told his story to the intern doing research for a sci-fi TV show, and the student of ancient myth and its interpretation in the modern era, and then for the quiet girl who only told him "I need to know about the nagi."
Her, too, he taught what he could, and because she seemed to have a spark about her, Adham pulled out some of his old sources and then, in the end, the family pictures. If she was truly human, they would be of nothing but humans to her sight.
The gasp told him all he needed to know. Or so he thought, until he turned around.
"Oh." Her tail filled in the rest of the story; her tears provided the punctuation.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-28 04:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-28 03:47 pm (UTC)X. comes from different line - X and Anwell and the girl in Year 9 are sh'Aeolind (Imagine that that's a mushed-together ae, no numpad on this keyboard).
no subject
Date: 2011-11-28 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-28 03:50 pm (UTC)