Quite a pleasant year it’s been,
Mayhap the best yet I have seen.
And ‘tis true, as some do say,
That I spent it running ‘mongst the fae.
Blessed Canterbury this year has been,
With fae leadership like none yet seen,
And all the talent one could ask,
For the fae portraying task.
Listen*, reader, and you shall hear,
What has transpired this past year.

*Strike “listen” and “hear”, replace both with “read”.  You get the idea.

In the mortal world, a gloomy day.  At least, until the coming of the fae.

In days long past, it came to be,
A mortal found the courts faerie.
Ever long, his life was made,
So eternally he could guard each glade.

King Sil and I, we are the same.  'Twas not I that made this claim.  They say he wished to see the things one would not dare to show to kings.  So he walks the and as common fae.  At least, that is what they say.

In the mound of the fae King Sil,
His home once was and it is still;
The faerie mound Silbury Hill*.

*Wiltshire, England.  Kind of close to Stone Henge.

The place I dwell, the circle round.  The ancient tomb, the faerie mound.

When on the Hill each new day dawns,
The once-mortal rises and yawn.
His silver* armour he quickly dons,
And grabs his ancient sword of bronze.

*May not actually be silver.  This is theatre, you know.  But the sword really is bronze.

Most of the fae, if I may say,
Have faces young and forms quite fine.
They glisten in the sunlit day,
And have a glow nearing divine.

Sometimes, to these lovely fae,
Unscrupulous admirers* seek and pine.
The once-mortal drives them away,
Keeping unwanted suitors in line.

*Or, put plainly, stalkers.

Not an actual stalker.

Quite unlike the other fae,
The once-mortal doth seldom play.
He watches the fae, their homes and gates.
Though some mischief fae nature predicates.
Those with ribbons in their hair,
Or hats with long tails had best beware.
Thou may feel a breeze, but shalt not see,
How the braid behind thee came to be.

With the fall of day and rise of night,
The once-mortal’s daily job is done.
But there is time for a revel or fight,
With the things that stay hidden from the sun.
Some may hunt, or play chess with a brother,
But collaring werewolves is a sport like no other.
And sometimes strange patterns he cuts in the grain,*
To see if it drives the mortals insane.

*Turns out, Silbury Hill is the crop circle capitol of the western world.  But I don’t think the phenomenon is period, so I couldn’t put it in the costume.

And with the dead that feed on the living,
There is indeed much misgiving,
For nothing can more vexed be,
Than a vampire near garlic it cannot see.
And the faces it makes, though wicked and vile,
Are funny enough to make the chase worth the while.

Fin.

King Sil's crown, scepter and all that, are guarded by a pumpkin cat.  Mortimer is the creature's name, a fearsome fruit impossibe to tame.

Well the sun's shining down on these green fields of France
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance
The trenches have vanished long under the plow
There's no gas, no barb wire, there's no guns firing now

But here in this graveyard that's still no-man's land
The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man
The whole generation was butchered and damned

Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the pipes lowly?
Did they bugles carry you over as they lowered you down?
And did the band play 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers Of The Forest'?

                                  -No Man's Land (Green Fields of France), Eric Bogle

The start of KCRF 2009 (aka 1547) season approaches swiftly.  In the mere wait to Labor Day weekend we shall commence with the festival.  And what of the news of Canterbury?  See below.

The Festival

We are again met with a ficticious monarchy.  It seemeth that, when we attempt to portray actual, historical personages, Ann Boelyn hath an an invisibe yet unshakeable mark of doom about her head.  This is not well met at all for a festival, so our recourse is to conjure forth royalty of our own devising.

The scenario this year, now that 'tis finalized, I see to be light an irreverent.  'Tis a match betwixt Sheakespeare and Marlowe with, as we are known to do, great liberties taken in the interpretation of history.

The Fae

'Tis true that I this year shall count myself among the number of the Unseen.  I can best describe the attention given to the fae by saying we are riding the "last year's scenario high."  We have taken the Wildewood as our own realm and we've the numbers to fill it.  In contrast to the mortals, we the shining ones have begun to draw characters more from history (or rather mythology) than previous years' trend toward taking characters from fiction.

For mine own character, this year not as "Sir Julian" shall I be known, as well you may likey guess.  Rather, I shall be Sllbury (named for the hill, which in reality, is the crop circle capitol of the Western World), knight-protector to the legendary King Sil (king to the fae of Albion), and guardian to all Albion's fae.

More on this I shall likey have to say as the year doth progress.

Chess Match

Again I shall be participating in the Human (and fae) Combat Chess Match.  I've not a fight of mine own this year, but still I do look forward to it.  The fae will be present in force this year, and to any visitors to the festival I do highly recommend seeing the match.

Of the Past Week

This weekend did see a major event for our festival, the promotional event by which we pay for our rehersal space.  Mine own praticipation was of a limited nature as I hads been struck with multipe vexations for the weekend.

First was that unseen forces governing my knee did decide the weekend was a splendid time to cause it to inflate as a baloon for no particular reason.  I later realized it to be an infection, after it broke the skin days later.  'Tis well now in function, but I suspect 'twill leave a mark when all is done.

Second, and paling in comparison was that I did manage to gouge a chunk from one finger as I was doing last-minute work on mine armour.  Such was naught but the incapacitation of a single finger and it bothered me little in comparison to the previous vexation.  'Tis healing well now.

Finally was a slight sore throat I did seem to acquire at about that time.  Hardly did I notice it at all o'er the other matters.

Added to this, although not affecting the feaste, was that I had bombed a job interview mid-way through the preceeding week.  I had not truy expected to attain such employ, but job interviews are rare for me (even when the economy is good) and failing another is a less than comfortable reminder of how stuck I am in a rut of life.

Faced with such a conjunction of vexations, I can only conclude that I did have a fair bit of karma to pay off.  I know not what I may have done to earn such a debt, and so must guess it to be an ending balance from a previous life.

Matters Outside Faire

I did mention failing the interview.  It appears I've no choice but to remain at the job I have now.  Considering my pay, the time (the better part of an hour) to commute to work, the price of gas, and my scaled back hours, I am quite certain my net gain at this job is below minimum wage.  'Tis, howe'er, preferable to the one alternative I have which is to not have a job.  Barely.

Also I have elected to not participate as a vendor in the Wichita faire this fall, for the two reasons that I've had no time to build new inventory on account of al the labor I am putting into this year's costume armour, and further because I simply have not the money to cover the registration fee, and refuse to borrow said money when I have every reason to believe I will not sell enough armour to cover that expense.

(Tangentially, my costume armor is quite a piece of work.  I know of no other armour even remotely like it.  Some parts did not come out quite as I wished them, but this a very ambitious endeavor for my modest skill level, and by-and-large I am pleased.)

Finally, as I've no other advertizing for it, I shall reiterate:

weread.com/book/B0027IQGOM/It+Takes+A+Gr...

I would like to start a website to promote my one published 'kindle' book, but have no idea where to start.  I am also hindered by ack of money (as I do not believe webspace to be free) and the fact that mine own computer hath not internet access.  Would that I had my way I would put up a site via a green webhost.

-Sil, or J

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?
In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined?
And though you died back in nineteen-sixteen
In that faithful heart are you always nineteen?

Or are you a stranger without a name?
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane
In an old photograph, torn and tattered, and stained.
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame.

Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the pipes lowly?
Did they bugles carry you over as they lowered you down?
And did the band play 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers Of The Forest'?

     -No Man's Land (Green Fields of France), Eric Bogle

Revolutionary concept, I know.

One of my more persistent problems as a writer, in mine own opinion, is description.  I tend to write stories a bit like plays, driven by dialogue and not emphasizing affect or setting.  Or, tangentially, if it's a fantasy book I go through setting ike a history tome; telling things by how they came to be rather than how they feel.  In any case, when I go into description it tends to be entirely too rote, describing detail rather than feel.

We now interrupt this blog to bring you...

So to practice descriptions the obvious answer is to write more, and as a exercise aside from just things I intend to publish.  What follows is an attempt at a description, emphasizing mood rather than detail.  Or at least, such is what I shot for.  The blog will resume afterward.

    In brick and stone buildings that had been at the city’s heart since the age of steamboats, train conductors, and men in blue dying alongside their brothers in grey, a small coffee shop had made itself the modern occupant of a sliver of space just off the main road where word of mouth drew a crowd better than a flashy sign could.
    Behind the counter stood a young woman with bright, curly red hair that surrounded her head, almost engulfing it, like a mane or a fiery halo.  Everyone that walked in the door she greeted with a smile, even the ogre who walked in with his hairless head telling the tale of a battle with the sun he could not have won.
    Relying on his memory of the place he stepped forward to the counter, his feet moving faster than his eyes could adjust as he emerged from the bright sun into the shop’s cozy shadows, leaving the heat of the day behind at the door.  He looked over the menu, written on a blackboard in colored chalk despite the fact that it never seemed to change.  His eye lingered on the “frozen chai” in spite of his aversion to anything so unnatural as a beverage that’s brewed hot and served cold.  The heat of the day had triumphed over his ideals of what a beverage should be.
    When he got the drink he found a small empty table and resolved to take the exotic concoction slowly, stirring it and letting the ice melt just a little between each sip.  He looked the walls up and down, noting the books on the shelf and reminding himself of the decorations.  He glanced at the other scattered patrons the afternoon had brought in, perhaps some part of himself looking to find someone who might recognize him from when he had been a regular, in college years ago.  Better times.
    A hippie, tall and thin with long dreadlocks walked out after a conversation with the red-haired woman.  Undoubtedly he was a college student.  The sunburned man silently envied his being in college, and his full head of hair if not necessarily what he chose to do with it.  Once a bit of a hippie himself, he had had long hair and been active in student groups concerning the environment and social justice.  The hair had been a casualty of advancing age.  When he realized he was going bald he had shaved it all off; the closest thing he had achieved to a victory versus fate.  He had fallen out of his activist ways and the years of college hadn’t granted him a white-collar job, but he still shopped for organic flour, fair trade tea, and locally grown produce on his meager working-class pay.
    He was drinking the ambience more than his chai, trying to let the cool relaxed, avant-garde atmosphere permeate his being as he checked the time on a clock so old and rusted he was almost sure it was an ornament rather than a functional piece.  But the Victorian minute hand did move ever so slightly between glances.
    In the end he was no longer a part of this world; just a tourist.  The minute hand that may well have counted as much history as the building it was in was still sliding past elongated roman numerals on a browned face, and as it slid past the “VI” the cold chai was gone and it was time for the sunburned man to return to working life.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog.

Over the last few months I've gone to two events to sell armour.  The first April, and the second May.  Let's talk April.  If I had sold one piece, it woud have been some change in the pocket.  If I had sold two decent pieces (as opposed to the cheap aluminum decorative vambraces) it would have made up for the entry fee.  If I had sold three, it probaby would have made up for the whole cost of the trip (food, and gas to truck down to Wichita).  If I had sold more it would have been profitable.  Now of course all this is "if I would have".  Can you guess how many pieces I actually sold?  I'l give you a hint.  It's a non-negative whole number somewhere between -53 and 1.

Can you get it?

If you said zero, you are CORRECT!  So there was no money made and I was out more than $200 to go there.  But fear not.  I learned some valuabe lessons.

1. A greathelm makes a wonderful candle-holder; it keeps the candle from blowing out even if you're camping in your merchant tent during a storm.

2. Every renfest site should have showers.  They don't, but they should.

2. Every renfest site should have a ferry in case it floods in a storm.  They don't, but they should.

3. Wichita has several major easy-to-navigate streets.  And a bunch of confusing ones.

4. If you get lost in Wichita before the festival starts looking for a hardware store to buy #4 washers to finish armour and finally find such a store, MAKE SURE YOU GOT #4s BEFORE LEAVING!

5. If you have a chunk of your thumb missing due to an angle grinder accident and think you're healing well enough to go without an anachronistic bandage, don't whack your wound with a hammer whie doing last-minute armour work.  Not unless you realy like bleeding all over everything in the shop.

6. If you bleed enough, the performers at Wichita Renfest will be kind enough to procure an anachronistic bandage for you.

7. There are some very good peope at the Wichita faire, but not too many who are interested in buying armour, even if said faire is done by SCA folks.

I have to interrupt the blog again.

I just noticed this on the CD I'm listening to as I write.  I will not name the CD; just give this advice.  If you record a CD with the song "Minstrel Boy" on it (... "The minstel boy to the war has gone, in the ranks of death you will find him"... et cetera), doublecheck your spelling.  "Menstural Boy" IS NOT THE SAME THING!

Sorry for the interruption.  Continuing...

The booth was decently popular.  I had brought the anvil to do some last minute armour touch-ups so people could see me working on the armour, and peope liked to look at and try pieces on (which didn't bother me as stainless, half my inventory, won't rust over so easiy as a simple touch), but when it came to making a purchase, not so much.  I think maybe instead of applying as a merchant I shoud have pitched my presence in the faire as a living history exhibit and seen if I could have gotten them to pay me to be there, instead of me paying them.  Or at least gotten a discount on the rather steep registration fee.

But I did do a little networking and got some feedback, including the all-important "looks like quality work" and "my prices are reasonable", more than once.  Some people were actually surprised I was asking for so little on some of my pieces.  Especially the mild steel ones.  I guess the prices weren't "reasonable" enough to make a sale, but were good compared to my peers in the field.

For the second event I didn't bring the anvil as there wasn't any last minute work to be done.  I still had all my inventory from Wichita!  Besides that, it wasn't a renaissance festival, so I wasn't sure the neighbors would appreciate the noise.

All told, I had about $1000 worth of inventory.  If I had sold it all, I would have made up for all the money I spent on both events, and gone a long way toward paying off my startup costs for getting all that armour work-related equipment.

Now here's the big news.

A PIECE OF MY MAKE ACTUALLY SOLD!  Now let me qualify that statement.  I didn't actually sell it.  I donated it to the silent auction, a charity event, and there it sold, for $55 if I recall.  If I had sold it the price would have been $90.  (Stainless steel spaulders.)  Now as for pieces sold that I got the money for, the number looks a lot like my sales for Wichita.  Exacty like, actually.

Now, for things I learned at the May event.

1. Being anchored to the booth all day (doing a that not-selling) put a serious dent in my abiity to go to workshops and other events.

2. I need a friend or significant other so I can sucker somebody into manning the booth and letting me do other stuff once in a while.

3. Considering all that not-selling I was doing, it wouldn't have mattered if I had ditched the booth and gone to a bunch of workshops.

4. All those glow-sticks I was required to have but didn't use come in handy for the last night's midnight madness sale.

5. If, late at night while not-selling at a midnight madness sale, you suspend a glow stick from the top of your merchant tent using a long string, you have a giant glowing cat toy.  It's handy if you need to distract a giant glowing cat.

6. There were no giant glowing cats in need of distraction at the May event.

7. Giant glowing cat toys also distract armourists, even if the armourist in question is neither giant nor glowing.

That's all the not-selling I've been doing as of late.  I've been speaking to several people about getting involved in the SCA, as that's where my main market will probably be, and also, whether I sell or not, I'll be able to use mine armour and thus evauate it under combat conditions, allowing me then to refine the patterns and make better armour.  And then not-sell that.

Right now I've not been working on saleable pieces as I'm doing mine own armour for this year's KCRF costume.  (And also, I still have about $1000 worth of inventory from all my not-selling in April and May.)  I'm attempting something rather ambitious, for my skill level, and so far results have shown crude success.  (More on that later, most likely.)  But even if it's rough and hardy wearable IT'LL STILL BE STAINLESS!  I won't have to scrape rust every single day.  Or so goes the theory.

-J

Just a few minutes ago was the first I saw my work on the net.  (Oak Tree Press wasn't interested in pubishing it to print but they accepted it as a Kindle e-book.  I'm actualy still surprised that one of the first three publishers I sent it to accepted it.)

If the link works here...

weread.com/book/B0027IQGOM/It+Takes+A+Gr...

The cover wasn't my idea, and the description got a bit chopped around.

The contract said they would publish it in 30 days.  I signed not really expecting to hod them to it.  To my surprise, I got the "it's up" notice in time.  I was really expecting more editor feedback ("don't like this, let's change that, this other thing wil offend too many special interests" -- that sort of thing).  I'm left to conclude one of three things.

1. my manuscript really was that good

2. they were rushing to meet their deadline

3. they were more interested in flooding the market with e-books in the hope that one would be a winner.

I'm hoping for 1., but being a natural pessimist I tend to lean toward 3.

-S

EDIT

That ink doesn't seem to work anymore.  Mayhap this will.

toponlinedegree.net/cheap_it-takes-a-gri...

Usually a web search for "It Takes a Grigorus" (with quotes) will fetch about three results, and at least one will be it.

And if you've not been following along, check my previous post for a teaser into the novel.

For the record:

Getting sick: not fun.

Taking a chunk out of your thumb with an angle grinder while just starting to recover from illness: even less fun.

Missing a parade due to being sick and having maimed one's self the night before: not fun either.

On the potential bright side (and thus at the risk of breaking character), they say 'chicks dig scars'.  I wonder if there's any truth to that.

Now, seven and a haf days after having tagged my thumb with the deady rubberized spinning disc OF DOOM, I've finally seen a doctor, who said, and I quote, "It looks pretty good for a bad wound."  I suppose that I was recovering from an illness heped in that my white blood cells were already fired up and ready to go.

Now, on to other things...

ARMOUR WORK

I've a few pieces done now.  I am taking it easy on the armour work as 1. my left thumb is less than 100%, and 2. I've yet to hear back from the peope at GPRF about if I have a booth there anyway.  I'm still waiting to officially hear back so I can take the days off work.  (I do have other things I can do with those vacation days.)

The gorget mentioned in the previous post did eventualy come together.  I've since made one out of stainess with the hep of a Mapp gas torch.  (A tax return can be a wonderful thing.)  Heating armour to shape it produces some rather rigid armor once it has cooled (which makes fine shaping an adventure).  I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't give all my armour the once-over with a torch to harden it (and produce those pretty heat-rainbow effects).

Also, while touching up armour I took a chunk out of my thumb.  Did I mention that?  Well, it turns out peope DO make safety gloves out of Kevlar.  I've ordered a few.

KCRF

We are starting a new season.  The scenario looks to be... bizzare and non-sensical.  I have yet to get a good fee for it.  For mine own matter, I am looking at roes other than the 'armored knight' (I'm not sure if I can physically take another year of it).  Oddly enough a fae part has caught mine attention.  I could wear partial armour and be a vrey shiny immortal... thingie.

Now I need to start introducing more random, non-sequitor changes of subject to get into character for a fae part.  I know not where, but SOMEWHERE it is written that fae have an attention span approaching zero.

Also, I missed a parade recenty.  I blame an angle grinder.

WRITING

Ever hear of something called 'Kindle'?  The one pubisher I heard back from said they had all the paper books they needed, but were looking for more titles for Kindle.  Apparenty it's an electronic book reader.  (Esoteric, but I' take what publishing I can get.)  I'm waiting for further instructions before submitting a manuscript.  I think it's a convention that ALL publishers take their sweet time in returning letters of expecting authors.  There's probably some reson for it that I don't understand, having never been on the other side of the publishing industry.

I like key lime pie.  Grass likes cow pie.  Which is different from meat pie.  (I'm working on the non-sequitor thing.  Good start, you think?)

Incidentally, does anyone know what the proper singular of the word 'Grigori' is?  The word (apparently Greek for 'watchers') referrs to the angels that got a little too friendly with mortals and ended up bein sentenced to live among them, as told in the 'lost' biblical text the Book of Enoch.  I mention them in my manuscript, but I NEVER see that word conjugated and meet only wit h faiure when I try to learn the proper singular.

Just for fun, I'll end this post with a litte teaser story I wrote to promote my book, but beware; the teaser is competely unedited.  Aso, before that, NON-SEQUITOR ATTACK!

-I want a keyboard where the keys work.  Ls suck on this one.

-I have one of those, but it isn't attached to a computer with internet access.

-Armour is shiney, uness it's covered in mill scale.

-Bananas make lousy boomerangs.

-Mill scale is grimy.

-We can a priori, and prior to all given objects have a knowledge of them in which alone experience is possible, but never unto the laws which govern them without reference to possibe experience.

-a priori knowledge is things you can learn by thinking about it.  A posteriori knowledge is knowlege learned from experience, ie. getting off you posteriori and finding out.  Unless it's knowlege about what it's like to sit on your butt.

Now, the afore-mentioned unedited teaser.

Prague, the middle of the night

    Raziel carefully stepped around the clutter of the small, run-down apartment, mindful of the shimmering grey robes he wore that had a tendency to catch loose objects if his attention lapsed.  At the same time he was equally mindful of the great wings at his back, their blue feathers being every bit as problematic as the robes even pressed tightly against his shoulders.  There was only one mortal in this room, and that person was fast asleep.  With that guarantee against being spotted, Raziel indulged in the rare luxury of showing his true angelic form in the mortal world.  In the dark and what would otherwise be quiet, he scribbled a pen across a page to capture the words his ears met, spoken by the mortal in her sleep and penned in his notebook in a language no living mortal would fully understand.
    This mortal, long ago, was Raziel’s superior.  This was Jerahmeel, once the seventh archangel, now caught in one of a long line of mortal incarnations.  Finding the exiled angel in this incarnation had been a boon to Raziel as this angel, even in the humble shell of flesh that was his prison, was a powerful prophet.  Now the prophetic ability only manifested in his sleep.  Or her sleep, to be technical to this incarnation.  Even after Raziel had reluctantly disclosed Jerahmeel’s incarnation to the other angels, he didn’t fully disclose his tricks for coaxing prophecies from her, and thus still managed to use her for leverage in politicking.
    Raziel had what he had come here for.  That Jerahmeel had given a while ago, but he had asked more questions.  He always asked more.  Always.  He had learned very early on that asking more questions than what was needed was a very good way to become privy to interesting and sometimes very valuable information.
    Jerahmeel spoke in the strange droning tone she invariably took on when delivering prophecy in her sleep.  “The lost messenger is driven home.  His spade razes the parliament.”
    Raziel diligently transcribed the sentence with time to spare, which he used to begin scribbling conjecture and annotation in the margins.  “Where is the lost messenger?”  If his guesswork was correct, this was something important enough that it he had best pass it along free of charge.
    The reply came.  “Among the demos.”
    “How do we find him?”  Talking to an on-duty oracle was like trying to solve a Rubick’s Cube while looking at it on a black and white television.
    “Seek, and you shall find.  Find, and you shall drive.”

Day

    Standing outdoors in a shadowy back alley, Raziel took on a less conspicuous visage.  He drew a breath from his cigarette.  He turned to face Raphael, the archangel easy for him to recognize even disguised as a mortal.
    “You know you’re setting a bad example.” Raphael said, gesturing to the cancer stick.  His tone was conversational, not scolding.
    Raziel laughed, inadvertently sending a cloud of smoke into his superior’s face.  Raphael ignored it.  “I’m not exactly setting an example if no one knows what I am.”  They conducted their conversation in English.  Here, in this slum of a gypsy neighborhood, conversational proficiency in English was a rare skill.  Raziel’s favorite mortal guise blended in perfectly here, with the tan skin, long-ish black hair, and old clothes.  He looked like a random middle-aged Romani.  Raphael, with his impeccable semi-formal attire and red hair, was a perfect compliment to an affluent neighborhood but here looked lost.
    Raziel took a second to get his thoughts in order.  The term ‘messenger’ was one that, with Jerahmeel, usually referred to angels.  The word ‘angel’ came from the Greek word with that meaning, as angels were the intermediaries, the messengers, between the mortal and divine.  So it was something about a lost angel coming out of the woodwork.  The part about razing the parliament didn’t bode well.  ‘Parliament’ probably referred to the angelic bureaucracy.  Jerahmeel hadn’t given any clues, at least that he had understood, to indicate what part of the bureaucracy.  That probably meant the lost angel was going to shake it to the core.  In the worst case scenario, it would go down something like Lucifer’s rebellion all over again.  This wasn’t going to go over well when he reported it.
    The lost angel was supposed to be among the demos.  ‘Demos’ was a Greek word that could be translated as ‘idiots’, or just ‘common people’, depending on what spin the translator wanted to put on it.  In the past Jerahmeel had used the word to indicate normal mortals; the people who didn’t know anything about what really took place in Heaven.  So, apparently the angel was hiding somewhere among the mortal population.  Maybe it was another one like Jerahmeel, some poor angelic soul stuck incarnating as those beings and not even knowing what it actually is.
    Jerahmeel had also said they could find the angel if they looked, and if they found him, they could ‘drive’ him.  That implied that there was a chance to avert this whole mess by finding the angel in question and steering him down a new path.  In his mind, Raziel took a guess as to what his next assignment would be.  That sort of thing was Raziel’s existence nowadays.  Professional information-gatherer.  Professional spy.  Professional messenger.  Professional pee-on.
    Raphael was waiting for the professional pee-on to speak again.  Raziel obliged.  “I got the info you wanted.  The demon’s going by the name of Rampage Surf.”  For once, saying what he was supposed to be talking about was stalling.  Maybe if he thought about it long enough he’d find a way to say the other part that wouldn’t cause Raphael to flip his lid.
    “Sounds like a hacker name.” Raphael answered.
    “He does do most of his stuff online, yes?”
    “Yeah, I suppose it makes sense.”
    “So what now?  Hand it off to Uriel?”
    Raphael shook his head.  “I’ll deal with him myself.”
    “Got a plan?”
    Raphael shrugged.  “I dunno.  Borrow Gabriel’s trumpet and hit him with that.  I think I can manage something.  Anyway, Uriel’s working the Gaza strip.”
    “Still?”  Stalling.
    “A few malicious shedim running loose in the mortal world can do a lot of damage if they go unnoticed long enough.  Especially if tensions are running high to begin with.”
    “Were they screwing with the Israelis or the Palestinians?”
    “Not sure.  From the last thing I heard from Uriel, I’d guess they were playing both sides.”  Raphael looked around.  “Well, I need to get to work.  Go borrow that trumpet.  Anything else before I go?”
    Raziel gave a reluctant sigh.  “Yep.  There is.”