LoopRez is an amazing script by Ged Larsen. It enables one to rez multiple prims grouped together in a neat little loop – hence the name. With a bit of tweaking, one can configure notecards that generate said looped prims in varying values along the standard x, y, and/or z axis.

What does that mean? Well, frankly my dear, it means that a script can generate tapered, ragged, or otherwise uneven skirts, collars, sleeves, cuffs, etc. No more moving all of those prims by hand!

Witness my quick and dirty screenshot of something that is in the process of becoming a jabot:

By the way, isn’t the LL noob avatar absolutely adorable? She’s the steampunk avie. I love her cute little figure, almond eyes, and pert nose. The skin is adorable, too.

Anyway, LoopRez allows one to configure all sorts of handy options. For instance, flare is a useful value. Umm…. the best way I can describe flare is to say that it controls the amount of starch in the crinoline. The top layer of the collar, the stiffer prims that stick upward a bit, has a high flare value of 120 degrees. The lower layer, the flouncy jabot part, has a relatively low flare value of 40 degrees. Even more useful is the dropscript template. It’s a script that you drop into a separate, standalone prim. When you modify that standalone prim and then click it, the shape, size, flexibility, color, texture, and pretty much any other properties of the template prim are automagically applied to every prim in your loop. It’s one click texturing! One click flexi-fying! One click resizing! Honestly, this robust little LoopRez script is worth its weight in gold. Not only am I really having fun with it, but it is allowing me to create lovely flexi-prim parts that make me look far more talented than I am.

All right. I should attempt to get some shut-eye, as I’m having trouble sleeping tonight and it is – ye gads! – almost time for me to wake up.

Your Affectionate:

–Typist–

While I have many exciting adventures to share with you, I want to take a moment to share another of my creations. Inspired by Miss Philomena Steampunk’s latest release of Steampunk textures, I call this dress Steampunk Jane.

I think it may be my best yet!

Your excited,

–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–

Palabra’s typist here. My character is always yammering on and on about how much she enjoys what she calls “the new plumbing.” She’s a bit of a bathtub addict. Poor Matilda has to draw her a bath nearly every night before bed – and again when she comes home soaked in kraken guts. Today, I stumbled upon a little slideshow that reminds me of her. I thought I’d share it with you.

Behold the wonder: in Natchez, Mississippi, an authentic 1850s WC survives to this day. Intact and in one single piece of furniture, the Victorian era lavatory includes a bathtub, a commode, and even a shower. Minus the lime deposits, the shower head actually doesn’t look all that different from my contemporary stainless steel fixture. This is quite the, erm, throne room. The lovely custom woodwork actually puts my cheap tile, plastic, and linoleum bathroom to shame.

So go forth, Steampunks and Victorian era enthusiasts! Secure in the knowledge that wealthy Victorians did have access to a luxurious loo that bears a striking resemblance to our contemporary facilities, feel free to design grand mansions complete with toilets, bathtubs, and showers. Given the lack of sink, it appears as though wealthy Victorians didn’t feel the need to sanitize their hands after completing their business — so don’t forget to add a little dysentery to the cloud of miasma that might occasionally waft through.

Hmm… I wonder what they used for toilet paper.

A lady’s period of confinement is insufferably dull. I sit with my sewing basket day in and day out. Sometimes, I read. Mostly, though, I employ my nimble fingers in sewing up new clothes for the baby while letting out my old dresses. In the midst of all of this boring busy work, I’ve even found the time to create a couple of costumes:

The art of the seamstress is only one of the options available to me when it comes to the difficult question of how one is to earn a respectable living. As fate would have it, I find myself uniquely qualified to provide my services as an investigator of.. hmmm… shall we call it phantasmagorical phenomena?

It just so happens that my old friend Mr. MacBeth, whom you might remember, called on me yesterday. His was more than a friendly visit. While walking along the shore of his home in Winterfell Absinthe, he discovered a most atrocious sight: the water-logged corpse of a murdered vagrant woman! The currents were such that the woman must have come from Caledon Cape Wrath, which is just across the strait from Winterfell Absinthe. No mere drowning, the victim most certainly ran afoul of some rather foul play. According to Mr. MacBeth, the corpse had been nearly drained of blood. Etched onto her skin with god knows what implement, a five-line riddle had been written out in ancient Sumerian script. And who, dear Diary, is the only “person” I have ever known to exhibit both a propensity for slaughter as well as for rituals of the ancient Sumerian and Babylonian variety? Mr. Plutonion, that’s who.

Worse yet, what I can make out of the “text” inscribed upon the victim’s person seems to indicate that more victims may be forthcoming.

Mr. Plutonian! Oh, Diary, can it be? Could he be back – or nearly so? Or is it, instead, one of his cohorts or cousins or however that works with demons? Do we have a case of an entirely human killer, instead, one who dabbles in the dark arts? I cannot know for certain, but I must be sure. Firstly, I cannot be sure that I am not on the list of intended victims. Secondly, if Mr. P. or someone related to him is the killer, Matilda might also be at risk. Finally, I cannot sit around with my knitting needles when my experience renders me uniquely qualified to investigate this case. Perhaps Mr. MacBeth, Matilda, and I can stop this mad murderer before any more lives are lost.

The good doctor advises against travel in my precarious state. While my injured knee has healed, I draw close to my time. It will not do, he says, to bear my child on a train or in a carriage. He felt it unwise to risk the health of my child. When I argued that I might save the life of another potential victim, however, he found himself unable to argue the point.

So it is, dear Diary, that Matilda and I find ourselves in a flurry of activity as we pack for the windy north country. Mr. MacBeth arrives tomorrow to escort us to the train. From there, we seek our destiny.

Wish me luck, Diary. I fear I might need it.

Your Fretful,

–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–

While I have been confined to my bed, I have found time to practice wielding the new weapon Danyell gave to me. Mr. MacBeth taught me the art of using my fists and feet to disarm a man. He trained me well in marksmanship. With my short dagger, I can be lethal. In the coming battle, however, Danyell assures me that such skills may prove inadequate.

By whatever name one calls the dark thing that crawled out of my attic rift, one certainly cannot call it natural. It may not even be physical. To fight a creature of spirit, Danyell says, one mus wield one’s own spirit against it.To this end, he has furnished me with a wand.

I admit to no small degree of skepticism. Magic portals, time traveling boxes, shape-shifting werewolves and more have I observed with my own keen eyes. Still, how can one small stick concentrate with will of one’s mind and the force of one’s soul in order to enact change in the world?

How it works remains a mystery.

That it works, I can no longer refute.

Well, the wand does something, at any rate. I’m not sure it works correctly. Or perhaps I do not use it well. Seldom is the effect exactly as I had desired. The first attempt resulted in a rather strange “blinking” effect. My intention had been to obscure myself from others’ view. Instead, the walls and decor of my house had appeared and disappeared at random. The charm lasted for nearly an hour! I thought I might burst before I could safely use the loo.

Just now, my bedroom floor is littered with feathers. How shall I excuse myself to poor Matilda?

“Apologies, Dearest. The pillow felt most uncooperative today. It did not levitate; it molted.”

That will hardly do!

Speaking of Matilda, I wonder where he has gone. Hmm… I must remember to scold him. These absences of his grow rather too frequent for my taste. What with the Triad lurking about. And something about a multi-tentacled beast, was it?

Oh! I believe the doctor approaches for my daily constitutional. Good day, Dear Diary! Duty calls.

Your Convalescent,

–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–

Do excuse my absence. I have been convalescing, as it were, and unable to enjoy your company in the discreet circumstances to which I have become accustomed. Between the dear, yet hovering, attentions of Matilda, Dr. Hyde, and even the (thankfully) less frequent visits from Nurse Rose, I find my social calendar quite full. Some of my friends from the club even came calling from time to time in order to wish me a speedy recovery.

My accident was quite remarkable. At least that is what I am told. One moment, the good doctor beamed as he conducted me on a tour of his pride and joy: his airship. No mere cloud hopper or boomslang, his is a stately affair fit for the court of a king. Indeed, Dr. Hyde assures me that his vessel did once host such a gathering. Several levels of living space join with the impressive control bridge and the cavernous hull to create the impression of a flying manor house. Unfortunately, for all of its glinting metallic wonder, the ship does show its age. I fear I experienced the worst of these ill effects when I lost my footing upon the stairs.

Yes, that must be it. I remember the stairs. The events that followed still seem shrouded in a rather dense haze.I must have lost consciousness. I recall finding myself, damp and sore, in the greenhouse below the ship. I wore a stranger’s clothes. My hair dripped. My throat and lungs burned. I recall a headache, bruised knuckles, and a sharp pain in my knee. When I came to, I found Matilda by my side. Even his hair and clothing looked uncharacteristically frazzled.

Really, Diary, it is all so very vexing! Some of it must be a dream. For instance, I cannot fathom how a younger looking Mr. Bluebird found his way to the accident. He had regained a limb, but lost his marbles as the cost of doing business. Certainly, such a thing is impossible.

Besides, I dreamed about Hanzai, as well. The doctor says I walloped him but good, landing a smart blow to his now-swollen nose. I do hope it doesn’t heal crookedly; he has such a handsome profile. Fineshit, himself, appeared to be a fine specimen of a man until he opened his mouth – or, heaven forbid, unsheathed his baton. And Hax, his little lackey, she was so diminutive! Such a small little crony she was, and with so deceptive a mien. She looked angelic; she acted a devil. I must have confused my friends for my enemies, for I am told I behaved like an absolute banshee. I fear for what I might have said or done.

My recollection is so foggy that I hardly trust it. As for the others, well… Matilda is the soul of discretion. Dr. Hyde barely mentions the incident except as medically necessary. Oh, Diary! What does he know?

For now, he waits on me hand and foot. He sings. He plays. He recites Shakespeare with the greatest of ease and ability. Were he to pull out a sewing basket, I might think him a woman. No – I jest. He is the most affable gentleman. I think he must feel very guilty for allowing me to fall from his ship. He hardly leaves my side, the poor man. I cannot blame him for the accident, however much Matilda may doubt him. He did not mean for me to fall. No, I give myself leave to like him very much. His considerable talents are wasted on that insipid Rose.

But that is all I shall say on the matter. Footsteps approach. I must make ready for my examination.

Your Injured,

–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–

This year, when 9/11 came, I went to work. I run a small snack shop. I went to work because I had to do so. Typically, Sundays are one of our biggest days. It wouldn’t make much sense to close our doors to our customers on a day when they’re more likely to show up in want of refreshments. How would I turn a profit? Still, I felt guilty. I felt guilty for thinking such mercenary thoughts on the anniversary of 9/11. It seemed wrong somehow to go on about my day as if this were just any Sunday.

At work, I did nothing to acknowledge the day. I didn’t bake red, white, and blue fudge or serve an American Special for lunch. I wanted to acknowledge the day, but I didn’t want to profit from it. To serve 9/11 themed food just seemed to be in poor taste. I lived the day as if it were any other. The only difference was the rumbling in the pit of my tummy.

Ten years later, the events of 9/11 still feel fresh. My life is very different now. When the planes hit, I was a college freshman. Today, I am married. I am a homeowner. In a perverse twist of fate, I still supervise a concession stand, although I have done other things in the last decade. I’ve lived in Virginia, New York, L.A., and Ohio. I’ve worked in publishing, in Hollywood, and in the I.T. industry. I’ve suffered crippling Depression, but come through to the other side. I’ve loved and lost, then loved again. I’ve started my life over again more times than I can count. I’ve witnessed earthquakes, wild fires, tornadoes, and the outskirts of a hurricane. A lot can happen in a decade. But some days, I think about those towers, and I’m right back in the doorway of my dorm room as I open it to reveal dozens of young, tear-stained faces. Or I’m walking across the front quad, headed for the library, as I wonder what sounds so different today (it was the lack of planes in the air, I now know). Some days, my heart and my mind forget the intervening years.

Other days, I mourn for those years. I mourn for a generation of veterans and college graduates who came home to a jobless economy. I mourn for the rights and privileges that we sacrificed in exchange for the illusion of safety. I mourn for a once-great nation who struck out, wildly and without reason, at a shadow boxer of an enemy. I mourn the additional loss of life caused by our military action abroad. I mourn the respect and loyalty of other people in other nations. I think 9/11 cost us immensely. The nearly 3000 who died in the initial attack were the first, most earth-shattering loss. Sadly, they weren’t the last.

On days like today, I seethe with anger. I want our enemy to be an easy target. I want our enemy to be a country with a military. I want it to have a city that we can turn into a sheet of glass. I want it to have a capital building to crush into a mere crater. I want it to have a president to bash until he or she is a stain upon the pavement. While I recognize the irony of this — we won our independence from a great power thanks to largely disorganized guerrilla warfare — that knowledge does not change the state of my emotions. We have the “big guns.” We have more nukes than any other nation, even if we and Russia have agreed to reduce our arms. We are still the only country to have ever unleashed anything like it. On days like today, I really want to nuke something. But what?

The effects of 9/11 are still very much with us. I don’t know if, when, or how we’ll ever recover. They say time heals all wounds, but I don’t think ten years has done the trick. I think the U.S. is still reeling from that fateful attack. Perhaps the next generation, those too young to remember where they were that day, will be able to move our country forward once again. Those of us who remember, though, still seem to be suffering a sort of collective PTSD. Life goes on, but it goes on in a manner that is forever altered.

Sadly, I think the terrorists succeeded. I think they did bring our great nation to its knees. I’m not really sure how to stand up again, but I have faith that we will eventually figure it out.

After an exhilarating Kraken hunt in the company of my new friends Mr. Blackheart and Dr. Hyde, I found my spirits strangely altered – and this is without the help of spirits (for, of course, the doctor could not consent to allowing me such liquid fortification). Perhaps it was the gory state of our apparel that turned my mood. It did, after all, turn my stomach such that I had recourse to the nearest spittoon. My maternal rumblings might also be the culprit. Expectant mothers are notoriously reviled for their shifting moods, not to mention frequent bouts of hysteria. That must be why I felt the need to behave so rudely toward Mr. Blackheart.

Blackheart, or “Master Kath” as the others call him, seems at first glance to be either very old or very ugly. His great, bulging forehead is criss-crossed with wild ridge-like wrinkles. Hairy eyebrows climb upward at a sharp angle, meeting in an angry “V” at the bridge of his nose. One might find his unnaturally tan complexion or his heavy bulk intimidating. Despite such glaring imperfections, the man seems in manner as jovial as any other bloke.

Indeed, Master Kath dances with alacrity and spirit, if not with style. He courts women too freely for the good of his reputation. A master marksman, he takes great pleasure in the hunt or other pursuits of the outdoors. In conversation, I find him both polite and attentive. Did he not resemble a troll, I might call him a dandy.

By dint of his free conversation, I learned that he courts one woman quite seriously while sporting with a gypsy girl in Winterfell. As a sporting woman myself, I might have held my tongue. Alas, it would not be silent. I proceeded, most unkindly, to use that organ as a makeshift lash. With it, I painted Blackheart twice over in stripes for each single offense given by his sex toward mine. He, for his part, danced and drank as though he were indifferent to my remarks. He even escorted me safely home!

Something about that man is not right.

Or, more likely, my recent dealings with his sex joins with my present condition to fan the flames of discontent.

Nevertheless, I find Blackheart an agreeable hunting partner. If he will forgive me my slander, I should not scruple to face the Terror of the Skies with him again. For tonight, though, I think I must submit myself to a bath before the goo sticks.

Yours,

–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–

Captain White Dana continues to submit overtures of friendship, which I find very kind – and also disconcerting. I cannot help it. Ever since my involuntary confinement in Hanzai, I feel mistrustful of everyone’s motivations. I suppose that is my own “baggage,” as Jacqui would say. Or will say. Would have said? Damn time travel! One never knows in which tense to write. At any rate, I fear I’ve painted myself the fool as well as the harlot in my new friend’s eyes.

The evening began pleasantly enough. Despite my very strong inclination to wrap myself in my bedclothes and hide until a solution can be found, I thought it wise to continue my social engagements as though nothing were the matter. After all, if a husband can be found quickly, I can always claim an eight month babe. With this in mind, I thought to invite my sprightly Russian friend to attend alongside me.

She has a new dining set, by the by. But that is neither here nor there. Where was I? Ah, yes!

I yawned my way through the invitation, at which point Dana suggested a friendly evening in. A spot of “girl time,” I think she called it. So we sat upon her large, comfortable sofa. She then proceeded to kindly, yet with surprising firmness, put forth a few concerns for my well-being. Hers is a Temperance household, it would appear. She cautioned most vociferously against my fondness for strong spirits. She also inquired, curiously enough, as to whether or not my baby’s father is a dragon.

“That is one possibility,” I owned, my shame nearly palpable as I hemmed and hawed my way through an honest reply. In a whisper, I added, “but the odds favor another.”

To Dana’s credit, she chose not to berate me on that score. Instead, she merely raised one pert eyebrow.

In what seems likely to have been a ritual of female companionship – the exchange of one secret for another – she then revealed to me a shameful truth of her own. In Dee, she had loved another. Arturos was his name. He was human, a fact that caused Danyell and the others to disapprove of the union. Eventually, she felt compelled to break with the man in order to pursue her place as the pack’s Beta. This, it seems, is her greatest regret: she has loved and lost, only to find love again in a more suitable partner.

I hardly think the two rate comparison.

What is wrong with me, Diary, that actual monsters should know the gift of love time and time again while I should not?

I went to bed early and Dana remained at home. I hope she felt some gratification. All I felt was tired – and strangely irked at Danyell. Who is he to interfere in the most intimate and personal of all of Dana’s concerns? This is why I do not mention the name of the man who probably fathered my child. The less Danyell knows about what I do when I am not at home, the less he can interfere.

Yours,

–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–

Just when I thought I could not possibly feel any worse, the universe has found a way. I never thought that any of my paramours – my clients, I mean – my “friends from the club,” I call them, might have wives at home. Nor that they might confess to those wives. I don’t know why the thought didn’t occur to me. Surely I am not so naive as to think all or even most husbands are faithful. It just seemed irrelevant. Until yesterday, the club was a world unto itself. Wealth, privilege, and beauty were there for the taking – for a price. So was I.

Today, whilst wandering on the beach, I found myself accosted by a female acquaintance of mine. I feel that the contents of our conversation should be private for her sake. Suffice it to say that her husband had confessed our arrangement and the lady was none-too-pleased. I know these people! I have attended dances and balls with them. The gentleman speaks often of his love and esteem for his wife. So why did he come to me the other day? And why on earth did I accept him? Has this behavior become so ingrained in me that I act as if by rote?

I offered this lady the only thing I had to offer her: the truth. I told her that I find myself in a delicate situation. She asked very direct questions about the father and his whereabouts, about how I had ended up in that predicament, and about the options available to me. As a woman, she seemed to feel a sisterly kinship beyond her obvious sense of hurt and betrayal for what I had done. I showed her my utmost respect and regard, answering her questions truthfully and apologizing sincerely.

In a strange twist of fate, I found myself encouraging her not to abandon her marriage over what had happened. “He loves you,” I assured her. “You are his world. I am just his friend.” Those words ring hollow to me, now, but they are true. When she pointed out that her husband might have declined, I defended him. I am a courtesan, after all. I earn my living by reading the subtlest of cues and then transforming myself and my actions into exactly what they want. I earn my living by convincing them to take what they want and more. I never thought about it that way, but it is true. Clients who may just wander through the door, I entice until they accept my offered charms. No wonder the courtesan has so strange a place in society. We are elegant temptresses, sirens in disguise. Perhaps we truly are the devil’s handmaidens, bedecked with fine clothes and jewels, fine of face and form, and skilled in all the feminine arts and allurements of our trade. We look genteel and respectable on the outside. But on the inside, we are deeply flawed. Perhaps the fault was mine, then. The man is no innocent, but he may be less guilty.

The lady and I parted ways without finding any resolution. Strangely, I believe we may have parted on decent terms. I offered to take full responsibility for what had happened. I offered to leave the social groups that we share in common. She told me not to do that, believing, it seems, that it had taken two of us to commit the wrong, so it was not right to punish one. I worry for the state of their marriage. I do not wish to wreck a happy home. Still, I think I admire and respect her even more for the mature and dignified manner in which she weathered her heartbreak.

I feel I can write little more on the subject. I do not wish to provide details that might identify my friends, if I may still call them that. This, my uncle’s arrival at the club, and my current delicate condition all conspire to strengthen my resolve to sail away. I think I must leave. The good doctor advises against extended travel in my state, but I think it is the only way.

Your Desolate,

–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–