User blog:Faenor of the Silver Laurel/Faenor - The Sniper

Hello, Faenor here. I'm the oldest in the Wiki family, nine months more so than Imrahil; though as I got an early start in life, I happily have a masters in history and a job teaching at a university, and therefore have no time to watch the house or corral the family. Oh, and I'm a reservist naval officer, though we'll talk about how I got wrangled into that some other time. I blame Trav, personally.

I any case, the family is... shall we say, unique. We have Glosur, who adopted me when I was a wee little lad; Imrahil, who's generally tried to keep me from being brutally murdered or offered up as one of Tyb's many sacrifices; the twins, who seem to really like making up passwords; Morgoth, whom I introduced to a fedora one day in an attempt to disguise his hair and ended up with Sam Spade; and Itallie, whom I generally avoid lest we get into another broadsword-on-katana fight with real blades. There are others, but that'll do to go on with.

My room is located in the attic; mostly to keep Tyb out of there, partially because I like the privacy. It's a big attic, and well-ventilated. The room's kind of bare: the only furniture is my bed, my desk, a single chest of drawers, and my bookcases. I made most of it myself, which means it looks like it's a hundred years old. My only concession to artwork is the beautiful collection of antique weapons I've collected. Really, it's gorgeous. A well-maintained armory with pristine weapons from the past four centuries... kept under careful lock and key lest someone try to go on the warpath, as they are wont to do from time to time.

As far as my life goes, it's quiet enough outside of the house. I lecture on the Napoleonic and First World Wars, I teach smaller classes on history. It's fun and interesting for me. In my free days I go down to the range and shoot, or I play games of Total War with the family.

Inside of the house... well, let's see...

--

'WE SHALL DESTROY THE BOURGEOISIE!' shouted Chaz from the bottom of the stairs to Faenor's room. 'HAND OVER THE REMOTE! WE SHALL WATCH OUR GLORIOUS REVOLUTION!'

I poked my head out the door. 'You realize that the Soviet Union fell, right-'

'SILENCE, HISTORIAN! THE REVOLUTION CAN NEVER DIE!'

I sighed as I smelled incense, carefully closed the door, and went to the small altar in the corner of the room. There were three icons there: one of the Christ, one of the Theotokos, and one of the Czar. I reached under and took out a small glass bottle, stoppered with wax, before returning to the doorway.

'Chaz, can your revolution stand to stop the demonic ritual taking place down the hall?' I called. 'The revolution stands for justice against the oppressor, right? Is there no greater oppression than the shackles of religious belief?'

Chaz closed his eyes and thought about it for a moment, and I watched anxiously, hoping the ruse would work. He nodded. 'VERY WELL, COMRADE, WE SHALL PREVENT THE SUMMONING OF THIS VILE REILIGIOUS FIGURE!' he shouted, before grabbing Argali by the arm and running down the hallway.

'You forgot the holy water.'

After he marched back and took it from me, I closed the door again and looked back to my computer, where a four-player battle was happening. I sighed as I saw Pat's lines; unicorns would do the trick. I'd have to remember to talk to him about clumping his units. After acertaining my army was in no immediate danger, I took a moment to check my sword was loose in its sheath; you never could be sure.

After yet another victory (I really ought to fight more people; the patterns get predictable after a time), I checked on Chaz's progress. I poked my head inside the dark cavern that was the lair of Tyberous, to find the man himself swearing up and down as Chaz blasted him with a SuperSoaker, the water likely mixed with the holy water I had provided. As the only Orthodox in the family, I had the access to the priest to make the holy water; Heaven only knows what might happen without it. Argali was blowing out Tyb's candles, smudging his chalk, and generally making a mess of his ritual. Trav came down the hall with a sandbag of salt, and I nodded.

'Fire in the hole!' we shouted, and threw the bag in, covering our ears, crouching, and turning away from the doorway. He must have put cuts into the bag beforehand, because it exploded, promptly covering the entire room in the stuff... as well as the three occupants. We winced as we started hearing not one but two voices swearing, and I made a mental note to visit Tybs and Argali later and talk to them about their rather colorful vocabularies. Not that they would listen to me.

I walked into the kitchen to find Imrahil pulling out pots and pans. Not a good sight.

'Ehm... what are you doing?' I asked cautiously. 'Dad wants me to cook.' was the reply. I swallowed nervously. When the fire department didn't show up, the hospital was usually the result of Imrahil's cooking. Our insurance provider had warned that they wouldn't cover another trip to the emergency room for severe food poisoning.

'...How about I do it?' I offered. My cooking was arguably the safest in the house; I didn't do it often, and when I did I ususally attributed it to someone else. Not for humility, but because if they knew they would ask me to do it more often, and I like not doing things if I don't have to. Added, I had heard about this before and prepared somewhat for the eventuality. Imrahil nodded gratefully and left to pacify... something, as I heard raised voices and the whirr of something. Hopefully not something dangerous. Let's face it, in the hands of these lunatics most things are dangerous. I still remember the time Tyb tried to stab out Itallie's eye with an unsharpened pencil... and how she beat the ever-living daylights out of him for it. That girl and I may not agree on much, but I can respect her martial ability. I sighed, and resigned myself to my work.

Two hours later, I startled the house and everyone for a quarter-mile with the sound of a cast-iron triangle being rung. Don't ask me where I got it or where I hide it; it's a secret I won't tell. All you need to know is that it works wonders for getting people's attention. It's also hard on the ears, though that's a problem I can deal with.

'Dinner is served,' I announced when approximately half the family had filtered in. Glosur wouldn't be back for some time, so I could always say it had been a miracle and Imrahil hadn't killed us all. Then again, he might be persuaded to make Imrahil cook more if I did. While I weighed life and death in my mind, people took seats at the dinner table (I always served at the dinner table; no TV dinners while I'm around) and looked at the meal I had prepared. Lamb and rice, the former slow-cooked for many hours, the latter a perfect shade of white mixed with the juices from the lamb and piping hot.

I glared at people when they tried to pick up their spoons. I can give the stare of death when I want, too. 'Typically, one prays before one eats.' I remarked. 'What if you don't believe in a diety?' asked someone. Probably Itallie. 'Then you wait until the people who do believe in one finish.' I responded forcefully. I had no intentions of sounding harsh, but I had to get the message across. This was like herding feral cats; one mistake, oen sign of weakness, and they'd swarm you.

'What if you want to pray to darkness incarnate-' began Tyb, but Imrahil promptly nipped that in the bud by applying a wooden ladle to the back of his head. 'Just let Faenor pray!'

'Thank you, Imrahil.' I said, and began to pray over the meal.

'What's he saying?'

'I think it's Latin.'

'Isn't he Greek Orthodox?'

'I don't know why either.'

I sighed internally at the stage whispers as I prayed over the meal, but I was not about to interrupt to shush them. Once I had finished, I waved a hand in their general direction. 'Heave to.' I got blank stares. 'Have at it?' More stares. 'You can eat now?' Still the stares. 'Methuselah Honeysuckle?'

They fell to with ravenous abandon, and I couldn't help but wonder: how did I end up like this?

--

'And I think we're done.' my therapist, Rosalie said. 'I really am sorry about your troubles, but I'm not sure how I can help this problem.'

'It's alright.' I replied, swinging my trench-coat around my shoulders. 'Someday, it'll all work out. Hopefully. Maybe. Probably not. But I'll try.'

And so I walked out, humming a tune about going over the hills and far away.