(no subject)

Eh-heh-heh-heh.

I know what I'm doing with Lune, at least to start with. (Though I don't actually know how she got herself disgraced, and should probably figure that out.)

Authorial sadism of the day: the country mice don't realize the city mice are cannibals.

LBR tally: today it's been blood, though not of the physical sort.

I may write some more. I mean, I don't have anything to do until the game tonight, except clean up my office or unpack more stuff or get myself together for the trip or finish the book I'm reading or --

I still may write some more, anyway.

okay, that's enough.

I think I'll call it quits for the day, at 2683 words. I kept going because I really really want to write a certain upcoming scene, but this story calls for a richness of detail beyond what I tend to default to, and that means after 2683 words Lune's only just now gotten to the Angel Inn. (With a lengthy break in there to try and determine just when that thing got built. Best I could find was that it was around by Jacobean times; I'm going to assume it was there a little earlier, and if anybody can dig up the evidence to prove me wrong, more power to them.)

So no encounters yet with our favorite batshit-crazy seer. He'll have to wait for another day. But some turns of phrase I'm rather proud of.

If I can get in another solid day of work tomorrow, I think I'll call it quits for a while. I know better than to think I'll write steadily while in London, but I wanted to get the beginnings of Lune's and Deven's plots on the page, and let that compost in my head while I'm gone. Then, come June, we'll really get to work.

Authorial sadism of the second part of the day: poor little mortal pets.

LBR tally: a bit of metaphorical blood, a bit of rhetoric. We'll have some love tomorrow.