update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/neviim/ioan/010.md

@@ -5,16 +5,22 @@
 
 The dinner that Do I Know God After The End Waking had prepared for them was...rustic. That was the first term that ey had come up with to describe it, and no matter how else Ioan tried to nail it down further, ey was left with little else that fit.
 
-It was a venison stew with parsnips and onions, thickened with tack and stretched with some barleycorns. 'Woodsy' was not quite the right word, and neither was 'simple', for the skunk had spent the better part of an hour doting over the kettle ey'd hung over a low fire, adding salt in what Ioan felt were miserly pinches, as well as pepper and nutmeg as though they were the most precious items in the world to him.
+It was a venison stew with parsnips and onions, thickened with tack and stretched with some barleycorns. 'Woodsy' was not quite the right word, and neither was 'simple', for the skunk had spent the better part of an hour doting over the cast-iron pot he'd hung over a low fire, adding salt in what Ioan felt were miserly pinches, as well as pepper and nutmeg as though they were the most precious items in the world to him.
 
 When asked where he got the spices, barley, and tack in a forest, the skunk had laughed, shaken his head, and said, "I am not a fucking ascetic, Ioan," then gone back to cooking.
 
 So, rustic stew it was.
 
-Very, *very* good rustic stew. End Waking had explained that, as he had no way to store leftovers, they would need to finish the entire pot that night. It turned out to be no stretch for the small gathering --- Ioan and May, Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself, Douglas, and End Waking himself --- as they all went back for seconds. The ranger skunk even swirled in a little extra water once the pot was empty, using a fingerpad to wipe what stew remained down into that to make himself a thin soup to finish out of the battered mug he'd been using as a bowl for the night.
+Very, *very* good rustic stew. End Waking had explained that, as he had no way to store leftovers, they would need to finish the entire pot that night. It turned out to be no stretch for the small gathering --- Ioan and May, Debarre, Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself, Douglas, and End Waking himself --- as they all went back for seconds. The ranger skunk even swirled in a little extra water once the pot was empty, using a fingerpad to wipe what stew remained down into that to make himself a thin soup to finish out of the battered mug he'd been using as a bowl for the night.
+
+End Waking and Debarre's on-again-off-again relationship seemed to be back on the rise, and so the skunk and weasel shared a seat on the log, tails draped across each other. So stoic was the Odist, though, that, while this was the only visible sign of affection between the two, it came off far sweeter than Ioan would have otherwise expected, especially given May's constant touch in their own relationship.
 
 They'd each brought their own contribution for the night, as well. After dinner, A finger Pointing pulled out a bottle of over-proof white whiskey that they passed around the circle, taking burning sips. Ioan and May brought with them a short, two-person play that they put on for the other three, full of crude jokes and self-deprecating humor. Douglas, having picked up music as a hobby since uploading, performed a trio with three instances, one on flute, one on a mandolin, and one on a cajón.
 
+For his part, Debarre had brought fireworks. Or *a* firework, at least. The weasel removed a double fist-sized sphere of *papier mache*, and set it atop a small cylinder right next to the fire. With End Waking watching, hawklike, he directed everyone to stand back a few feet and lit the fuse with a small punk from the fire, explaining, "I've been working on this for the last seventy years or so. It's only about fifty percent possible outside the System, but my excuse is that I never saw fireworks out there so I can do whatever the fuck I want."
+
+The firework lifted off the cylinder it had been set on top of with surprising grace. Rather than rocketing into the air, it rose slowly, splitting in half a few inches and rising in a tight helix, the weasel explaining that the propellant was tightly controlled to allow such, until it was hovering about eight feet above the fire on a column of sparks as orange as those of the fire itself. From there, small balls of cool-blue sparks popped free and danced in slow whorls. Finally, in a fountain green fire, billowing into the shape of a tree, it fell back into the campfire with a hissing sigh to be consumed by the flames.
+
 "Outclassed," A Finger Pointing grumbled. "You said 'bring something', my dear, so I brought a bottle to drink, and you all bring plays and music."
 
 "You will hear no complaints from me," End Waking said, grinning toothily. "Do you know how long it has been since I have had whiskey?"