OK, I've heard other people talking about JaNoWriMo before, but what is it???

@ Claire B: that question has already been answered in this thread.

Aargh, more subconjunctival hemorrhages. *eyes bug out* *sigh* This ALWAYS happens when I write. And you can't scratch at  all, otherwise it just gets WORSE. *dies*

On the plus side they look sick. 

More exert-ness:

Sable chuckled. "Healthy appetite."

The boy swallowed with difficulty and managed, "it's very good."

"I've had practise," Sable said dryly. "Loads and loads of practise."

The boy smiled. "The kitchen?" he asked, thinking of the obvious poverty that he had seen.

Sable nodded. "The last in a long string of cooking jobs," she said. "The Grey Lantern Inn, sanctuary of thieves, petty criminals, and undesirable company. At least, it is until it closes." She grinned.

"Where did you work before?" he asked curiously.

She sighed, slid into a chair opposite him. "Oh, lots of places," she said. "Inns, bakeries..." she trailed off. "I've cooked for the military once or twice. Never for very long. Too much discipline." she grinned.

The boy swallowed another mouthful of eggs. "How'd you afford all of this stuff then?" he asked, waving at the room behind him. "Seems a bit..." he trailed off, unsure of how to put it.

Sable grinned. "Out of my profit range?"

The boy laughed. "Yeah."

"Oh," said Sable airily. "I've other incomes too."

And she said no more on the subject.

A short while later Tacitus appeared, suddenly, and slid into a seat near the head of the table. He grinned at the boy. "Pleasant dreams?" he asked casually.

"Yes," lied the boy smoothly. No point scaring them off with tales of talking skeletons and painful death, not when they already thought him to be one of the death god's agents.

Tacitus grinned, and started in on a plate of his own. "That is good," he said.

The boy managed a half smile, one which was quickly wiped away by the voice that next met his ears.

"Death's boy still here I see," said Ling snidely as he moved to get a plate for himself.

"Ling..." said Sable. "Please. He's a guest."

"Visiting from the Underworld, no doubt," sneered Ling. "What's the Black Lake been like, eh, boy?" he asked.

He's lashing out because he's afraid, thought the boy. He's afraid that I've been sent to kill him, or one of his friends. He said, cautiously, "Black Lake?"

Ling snorted "The icy lake where the death god stows the skeletons of his victims."

"Well then, said the boy, feeling a prickle of quiet unease, "I expect it's full if skeletons."

Ling turned, his face purpling. "Don't mock me boy," he hissed.

The boy shrugged, hoping he looked braver than he felt. "I'm not an agent of death," he said simply. "I don't appreciate being called one."

Ling glared and stalked off to the other side of the oval room to eat his breakfast. He was joined shortly after by Amber, who glared at the boy from where she stood.

"They'll come round," murmured Sable in an undertone.

"At least, I hope they will," said Eric, coming over to sit. He didn't take any food, however, merely drummed his fingers on the wood of the table. He looked over at his brother. "Seems a shame to be related to someone with such a nasty outlook." 

You like? 

Two weeks of writer's block. Two weeks! But it's done now... As is chapter 4... Which I will now post here, because I can. 

Chapter 4 - Purple Skies

“You did WHAT?” bellowed the king, springing to his feet.

Damon shrugged. “I sent him a message. It’s a common enough practise.”

“He is dangerous!” cried the king, beginning to turn purple.

“Easy, Tyrone,” said Damon calmly. “You’ll put a hole in the roof. Again.”

The king of the gods glared at his brother. “This could destroy everything,” he said hotly.

“Yes,” agreed Damon. “But it won’t.”

“You can’t be certain of that,” snapped the king. “That boy could destroy everything.”

“That boy is mine,” said Damon stiffly. “He will not destroy anything, least of all your precious peace.”

“You take responsibility for his actions, then?” asked the king with surprise heavy in his voice.

“Yes, brother, I do.” Damon smiled.

The king sighed and strode to the great window. He stared out at the golden field, and at last said, “Very well.”

Damon smiled, and turned to leave.

“But if he destroys the peace, I’m holding you accountable!” called the king after his retreating back.

“I have no doubt,” muttered Damon.

~

Damon hurried down the hillside, away from the marble palace. The place made him uncomfortable, far to square and prim for his liking. He was glad to be out of it.

The death god took a flying leap downwards, his black cloak flaring out behind him like a sail. He landed in a dry stream bed, and the golden daylight shifted and blurred and spun around him in a tornado of blinding colour. A few seconds later Damon was standing in the Underworld.

A dimly lit cavern, open to the sky and the moon with her fleet of glittering stars. The arm of a galaxy shone in an east-west band across the dark purple sky and the twin tips of the crescent moon sliced through the misty wisp of a single, pearly white cloud. Damon smiled up at the sky, the light of a thousand burning suns reflecting in his clear, gray eyes.

A splash redirected his attention to the great lake at his feet. The water, dark polished obsidian and laced with the glittering reflection of heavenly diamonds, stared back at him. Below the still surface danced hundreds, thousands of skeletons.

Damon shook his head, a smile playing across his face, and stepped into the water.

A few skeletons turned to wave or nod in a friendly sort of way, but most took no notice, as they were too busy dancing and swaying in time with the piano to be bothered with the comings and goings of the death god.

Mot Caulfield waved from his seat on top of the piano. Damon’s lips twitched at the sight of the skeleton in the top hat, his toes dancing along the ivory keys, a crystal goblet of wine in his left hand, the silver pocket watch hanging from his ribcage, waving across the sea of swaying skulls and clattering joints.

Damon wove his way through the mass of skeletons, careful to avoid stepping on any toes. He pulled up beside the piano and grinned up at his friend and first mate. Mot leaned down.

“Delivered your message,” said the skeleton, teeth clacking against each other.

“He get it?” asked Damon.

“‘Course not,” said Mot contemptuously. “Not everyone thinks in riddles like you do. But he will. Oh, and Belinda’s looking for you.”

This was news to Damon. “Oh? What crime have I committed this time?”

“None,” replied Mot. “I think she’s trying her hand at being nice, just to throw everyone for a loop.”

“Interesting,” said Damon musingly. “And definitely Belinda’s style.”

Mot nodded, sending a cascade of snaps and pops down his spine. “She’s upstairs,” he said, jerking a thumb up towards the purple sky.

“Thanks,” said Damon. He skirted around the edge of the crowd and darted back up to the surface of the Black Lake.

A tree had grown in his absence. A great, leafy thing, it stood tall and silver in the moonlight, its branches swaying over the water in an almost nonexistent breeze. Belinda sat on a branch, leaning back against the smooth bark.

The goddess seemed to glow in the silver light, her eyes closed and her thick raven hair curling in her lap. Her myrtle-coloured garb blended perfectly with the tree’s leaves, and the dappling of shadows caused her to almost disappear. A thin, delicate-looking brown snake twined around her fingers and flicked its forked tongue towards the diamond splattered heavens.

“Hello, Belinda,” said Damon warily. “Mot said you’re giving ‘nice’ a go.”

“Only a little,” said Belinda without opening her eyes. “It’s rather boring though, I’ll probably slide back into my old habits soon.”

Damon stepped forward to lean against the cool, smooth trunk. “Be sure to warn me before you do,” he said.

“Ah,” replied Belinda, opening her emerald eyes and smiling rather maliciously at him. “But why would I do that?”

“Because at that point you’d still be striving to be nice,” said Damon.

“In that case,” Belinda said, “I shall make not giving you fair warning my first act of regression into nastiness.”

“Does the nastiness begin now?” asked Damon lightly.

Belinda laughed. “Of course not! How could it? Telling you that not giving you fair warning will be my first act of regression into nastiness would be quite the same as giving you fair warning. No, the nastiness begins at a later date, when you least expect it, I assure you.”

“A relief, ma’am, to be sure,” said Damon with a mocking bow.

“Don’t call me ma’am,” said Belinda, her thin, elfish features pulling into a grimace. “It makes me feel like an old, matronly hag, or something to that effect anyway.”

“And while you are quite old,” said Damon dryly, “I don’t think anyone would be so disillusioned as to call you ‘matronly’ or a hag.”

“Flattery, my dear, was never your strong point.”

“...Unless, of course,” continued musingly, “unless they were completely lacking in a sense of self-preservation.”

Belinda laughed, and transfered the whip-like snake to her other hand. She leapt lightly down from the tree branch, landing beside Damon and grinning up at him. 

“I  think,” said Damon mildly, “that I’m rather lucky you’ve the capacity to laugh at yourself.”

“Indeed you are,” said Belinda, hitting his elbow lightly. “Indeed you are.”

“You were looking for me?” asked Damon.

“Mm.” She looked upwards, the moonlight shining on her pale face. “What’s this boy everyone’s been talking about?”

Damon laughed. “You too?”

“Not much else to really talk about, is there?” she replied, shrugging.

“There’s not a lot to say,” said Damon with a sigh. “He was put to death by the kings guard… Elior got it in his head to reincarnate him-”

Belinda hissed through her teeth at that.

“-and something went wrong.”

“Bound to happen sometime,” said Belinda. She sighed. “I wish he wouldn’t do that, though…”

Damon nodded in agreement. “Anyway, now he’s one of mine.”

“Because Elior wasn’t up to the task of fixing his mistake?” asked Belinda dryly.

“Precisely.” Damon grinned.

Belinda sighed deeply, and walked out away from the tree, across the fine, black earth. Damon followed a step behind, watching as the moonlight caught in her hair, and reflected from the eyes of the snake. “Does he know?” she asked.

“No.”

“Poor thing…” said Belinda mournfully. “He have a name?”

“Not yet. Although I think the thief lord has taken to calling him magpie.”

Belinda laughed. “Humans! Remarkable, aren’t they?”

“You have an odd sense of humor,” remarked Damon. “Have I told you that?”

“Yes,” said Belinda. “Numerous times.”

“Well, you do.”

She sighed, and turned to look at him. “Does he remember anything?”

“Only in his dreams,” said Damon softly. “And even then he does not realize it.”

Belinda returned her gaze to the sky. In a dreamy, almost trancelike voice, she spoke: “Funny thing, dreams…”

“Oh?” asked Damon, his voice barely audible.

“The land of lies, the noble land of lies… All things pass through at one point or another…”

“Ah, so that’d be your territory, yes?” asked Damon teasingly.

She shrugged. “One could argue that, I suppose.”

For a few moments they stood in silence, staring up at the purple sky with its blanket of glittering silver light. Several times Belinda seemed about to speak, but fell silent at the last moment. A point of light blazed suddenly and flared across the sky, leaving a trail of dancing sparks behind it.

“Perpetual sunlight…” murmured Belinda. “Who needs it?” 

TNO, I had planned to do JaNo, but that was before November, and as I am still recovering (and waking up at 2:00 a.m. after having NaNo nightmares). I think I'll sit this one out and applaud your creepy-Victorian-novel writing prowess.