well, two things.
one: i am working on a new atlas post. one that makes up for the "WT(H)" factor of the last one, which I wrote really late at night and a reread tells me is flipping weird.
two: over at tumblr i've challenged myself to the 100 challenge.
specifically: i am doing 100 themed posts of 100 words each over at http://the-vagrant-typewriter.tumblr.com/. follow it, comment on it, subscribe, let me know what you think, use it as inspiration, what have you...i want to have a project I actually complete this year. (:
cheers!
- CBL
Showing posts with label Atlas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Atlas. Show all posts
(Finished? Post a remark.)
I have a terrible habit of neglecting duties such as this recording when our party encounters such difficulties as a ghr-landinger raid. Lord Otto and Commodoress Lavenranica are no doubt on the hunt for one or another of us. I should mention that we managed to reunite, and followeing the ghr-landinger incident are now sheltering in another decripit cavern. (There was also sufficient drama occurring upon the reunion of Cor and Mer.)
But I am getting ahead of myself. Readers will no doubt be anxious to know what has transpired between the last log and this; and if I recall correctly I have promised to relate some of the adventure behind the adventure, the reason we, a truly odd lot, are embarking on such a seemingly ill-advised quest. I may also throw in the story about the Dules' wild boar. It is odd; one goes so quickly from having no time at all, to having more time than one knows what to do with.
So I will do the best I can from this dank cave with the light from the mysterious fluorescent-lime aura that is emanating from further within. The others are now sleeping, except Cas, who is busy doing something magic for no real reason except that she can.
--
Flashback approximately thirteen weeks. I was a swordsmith in Toradun, working on a commission from patrons from the capital (none other than Lord Otto's brother-in-law's nephew's wife's stepsister's cousin's former apprentice, the esteemed Durin Kotske, and his wife), when the national announcement was made that Lord Otto's son Rodrigal was to be married to the princess of Flauir, Princess Flauir. I was in the shop when the townsphere burst out its gregarious news, alerting us all of the lovebirds' tidings with hideous, bombastic, imitation-string-and-woodwind music and effusive portrait-glimpses (through a lavender-scented spell, no less).
There was little rejoicing.
Our town is so far in the middle of nowhere that the Capital must have decided we needed constant entertainment through the townsphere; so we had been subjected to court gossip that nobody but the old hags ever lingered over -- so much so that this new news hardly turned a (non-gray) head. The only reason I remember this moment in such vivid detail is that precisely when the townsphere ceased the merry news we were treated to a true rarity: a spellcast from the Black Hills. More impressively, it was from Fra Gabor, the head witch herself. She laughed first to get everyone's attention as the townsphere glowed crimson and shadow, then coughed tremendously. Then she spoke, in a voice like thunder when it has been pressed and squeezed through the throat of a mallard.
"There will be no marriage," cackled the mallard. "For the Sun-Lord and the Moon-Witch have spoken; and the Time of Passing is at hand; and lo! the Ancient Prophecy shall be fulfilled, and -" More coughing commenced. "And there shall be weeping in the courts of the lands of Atlas when the New King ascends the throne to purge the earth of its hideous and its frail!"
It was difficult not to wonder if Fra Gabor counted herself among the last categories. With a loud duck cackle the townsphere bubbled. In a moment it resumed the endless loop of marriage gushings. We stood there, slack-jawed.
Then chaos ensued.
--
Or so I presumed. I am fairly certain that there were riots and other disturbances that evening as people scrambled to grasp what exactly was going on, what exactly would fulfill the prophecy, etc. I imagine the capital was fairly abuzz (we would find this to be true later).
But Toradun had no such excitement. The birds sang. The sun set. Trees blew in the wind, wine was pressed, cows were butchered, and the old hags worshipped the townsphere.
I for one finished my commission, fixed a brief meal, showered at my bathhouse, then returned to my bedchamber.
And found a young man sulking in my bed, my sheets over his head like a hood.
I shouted unrepeatable words and grabbed something to wear. Little will frighten one as much as encountering a stranger in one's bed, especially when a) it is a young man, b) said young man is wearing one's sheets like a hood, and c) one has been singing loudly whilst practically naked, assuming logically that nobody else is present.
I grabbed a sword instinctively but something gave me pause to simply, well, stare.
The young man didn't move, just stared, as well. We stared extensively. I scowled at him in my trousers, he at me in my sheets.
He had hair of a nondescript wheat color and bluish eyes and a youthful temperament: a truly generic young lad. He also had a scar at the right edge of his mouth. I made no note of these until afterward when I would fully realize their significance. It finally occurred to me that he was scrutinizing me (whereas I was merely shocked/angry).
Then he nodded and said, quite matter-of-factly, "You're the first."
That was how I met Cordry.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Readers will no doubt be anxious to know what has transpired between the last log and this; and if I recall correctly I have promised to relate some of the adventure behind the adventure, the reason we, a truly odd lot, are embarking on such a seemingly ill-advised quest. I may also throw in the story about the Dules' wild boar. It is odd; one goes so quickly from having no time at all, to having more time than one knows what to do with.
So I will do the best I can from this dank cave with the light from the mysterious fluorescent-lime aura that is emanating from further within. The others are now sleeping, except Cas, who is busy doing something magic for no real reason except that she can.
--
Flashback approximately thirteen weeks. I was a swordsmith in Toradun, working on a commission from patrons from the capital (none other than Lord Otto's brother-in-law's nephew's wife's stepsister's cousin's former apprentice, the esteemed Durin Kotske, and his wife), when the national announcement was made that Lord Otto's son Rodrigal was to be married to the princess of Flauir, Princess Flauir. I was in the shop when the townsphere burst out its gregarious news, alerting us all of the lovebirds' tidings with hideous, bombastic, imitation-string-and-woodwind music and effusive portrait-glimpses (through a lavender-scented spell, no less).
There was little rejoicing.
Our town is so far in the middle of nowhere that the Capital must have decided we needed constant entertainment through the townsphere; so we had been subjected to court gossip that nobody but the old hags ever lingered over -- so much so that this new news hardly turned a (non-gray) head. The only reason I remember this moment in such vivid detail is that precisely when the townsphere ceased the merry news we were treated to a true rarity: a spellcast from the Black Hills. More impressively, it was from Fra Gabor, the head witch herself. She laughed first to get everyone's attention as the townsphere glowed crimson and shadow, then coughed tremendously. Then she spoke, in a voice like thunder when it has been pressed and squeezed through the throat of a mallard.
"There will be no marriage," cackled the mallard. "For the Sun-Lord and the Moon-Witch have spoken; and the Time of Passing is at hand; and lo! the Ancient Prophecy shall be fulfilled, and -" More coughing commenced. "And there shall be weeping in the courts of the lands of Atlas when the New King ascends the throne to purge the earth of its hideous and its frail!"
It was difficult not to wonder if Fra Gabor counted herself among the last categories. With a loud duck cackle the townsphere bubbled. In a moment it resumed the endless loop of marriage gushings. We stood there, slack-jawed.
Then chaos ensued.
--
Or so I presumed. I am fairly certain that there were riots and other disturbances that evening as people scrambled to grasp what exactly was going on, what exactly would fulfill the prophecy, etc. I imagine the capital was fairly abuzz (we would find this to be true later).
But Toradun had no such excitement. The birds sang. The sun set. Trees blew in the wind, wine was pressed, cows were butchered, and the old hags worshipped the townsphere.
I for one finished my commission, fixed a brief meal, showered at my bathhouse, then returned to my bedchamber.
And found a young man sulking in my bed, my sheets over his head like a hood.
I shouted unrepeatable words and grabbed something to wear. Little will frighten one as much as encountering a stranger in one's bed, especially when a) it is a young man, b) said young man is wearing one's sheets like a hood, and c) one has been singing loudly whilst practically naked, assuming logically that nobody else is present.
I grabbed a sword instinctively but something gave me pause to simply, well, stare.
The young man didn't move, just stared, as well. We stared extensively. I scowled at him in my trousers, he at me in my sheets.
He had hair of a nondescript wheat color and bluish eyes and a youthful temperament: a truly generic young lad. He also had a scar at the right edge of his mouth. I made no note of these until afterward when I would fully realize their significance. It finally occurred to me that he was scrutinizing me (whereas I was merely shocked/angry).
Then he nodded and said, quite matter-of-factly, "You're the first."
That was how I met Cordry.
(Finished? Post a remark.)
Our adventure has taken an unhappy turn. Cor, in a clear attempt to effect a display of masculine bravado for one or both of his pretty females, has defied my quiet leadership style and gotten our party divided (in perfect half) by more or less causing an avalanche - although, in reflection, there was hardly any snow on the mountain that I could see prior to his rash chanting from Alchrezar's Ancient Spell-Tome. Some of us are in a mountain cave, the others are hopefully on the surface.
Having split thus, my party is comprised of four: myself; Glimerys; Duleswinter; and Casandra.
Glimerys I have already depicted; for the others, suffice it to say that Casandra is the aforementioned gypsy of legend, who has a terrible singing voice and cannot whistle for the life of her but is rather alarmingly attractive, and Duleswinter is a young, spoiled wuss.
It is often difficult for me to decide if he is our runaway prince or our creature unknown to worlds of men. (He is literally quite unaccustomed to manhood, i.e. sword-wielding, bath-skipping - and baths without perfumed bubbles/floating flower petals for that matter, gin-chugging, damsel-sweeping, etc.)
Glimerys has summoned a fire from a packet of snow-ash Duleswinter had been hoarding - with this I am barely able to transcribe. General anxiety has faded. I shall now attempt to record some conversation.
--
Duleswinter: I think I have a rash. Mer, take a look at this patch. Does it appear to be a rash to you? It must have been something that I ate. Cas, what have we eaten again?
Casandra: We didn't.
Duleswinter: Maybe that is it. All of this meal-skipping. We never skipped meals back home in Thornlaed! We had ten meals a day and crumpets. (unintelligible whimpering sounds)
Glimerys: Mmmm, that's a rash alright. Looks like a severe no-crumpets rash to me.
Duleswinter: (more unintelligible whining sounds)
Casandra: Luc, what are yooou (I am hushing her up with eye signals) supposing the others are doing fine!
Duleswinter: I am sure they are doing better than me!
Glimerys: I would agree. This rash looks positively deadly.
Duleswinter: ...That sounds rather bad.
Glimerys: Tragic. Cas, see if you have any ragwort in your cache; and perhaps a sprig of swallowthistle. Now where's that log? -- Dules, dear, you're going to have to bite on this very hard for me, and perhaps close your eyes, too. Cas, have a look. Does that look to you like duragorn inflammation or poison flaghorn?
Duleswinter: My mum had poison flaghorn! They locked her in the infirmary for weeks and she lost twenty pounds! I do not wish to die! (more wailing)
Casandra: Sign me up for that infirmary.
The girls have moved nearer to the fire/me. Dules is biting on an ashen log and huddled in a corner. I think it is necessary to note that Glimerys is about six years Duleswinter's junior. Glimerys suprises me once again with her near-encyclopaedic knowledge.
Glimerys: It doesn't look like an intravaccial infection. Even though the symptomatic engorgement of the sybulis maximum especially suggests exposure to aggravated charmleaf, it clearly isn't either duragorn or flaghorn. I would diagnose dulis-on-eyre at worst, though I'm partial toward labelling this one a moderate peripheral contusion. What's your take?
Casandra: Yes.
Glimerys: So it's not fatal.
Casandra: Unfortunately.
The light is fading fast. What little we have left must, apparently, be used for Casandra's midnight spell-braiding, which we hope may grant illumination as to the location and state of our companions. But the youths are in good hands; I firmly trust Rax and Callot. Next entry in this leatherbound wandererlog shall describe in greater detail the history of our adventure...
For which all I have to say is, curse you, Alchrezar.
(Finished? Post a remark.)
Introduction
Legends told the tale of a young lad who would one day rise to the throne of Gorgos and rule all of Atlas in tranquility and splendor. He would be accompanied by a maiden with hair that flowed deep fiery red and eyes that blazed like the bluest ocean deeps; by another maiden with lighter-colored hair, whose heart ached in unrequited love; by a thief on the run from the guild he betrayed, whose heart none could fathom, least of all himself; by a prince on the run from the kingdom he hated; by a bow-wielding bard who spoke the language of animals; by a mystical creature unknown to the worlds of men; by a powerful gypsy who sang the moon and whistled the sun (not sure what the legend meant by that one); and by another man, a taller one, who would die assisting the lad to fulfill his destiny.
My name is Lucard. I'm the taller man.
--
I come from the town of Toradun, otherwise known as Pig Harbor. This isn't because we specialize in the herding of pigs, or are even within fifty miles of the sea. Rather, in the ancient Year of Town-Naming some centuries ago, King Georthos XVII the Unifier met with our then-mayor to determine a proper title for our then-unnamed town. The story says the meeting went by just fine...until it came down to actually deciding a name. Eventually it was called 'Toradun,' after the mayor's first-born son, due to uncommonly vehement pressure from the mayor's wife, who literally barricaded the door to the mayor's home with her large girth until the frightened king graciously acquiesced. Then, back at his palace, King Georthos made a joke among his courtiers about how our then-mayor could keep such an obnoxious wife, though the words he used became, eventually, the ever-popular nickname for our town.
Forgive my long-windedness. Our party is currently in the Mountain of Colorless Rock, awaiting the next prophecy to dictate our next action, and it is immensely boring. I am merely fulfilling an earlier prophecy that I would be the recorder of the journey, writing tales of our escapade for a future boring day.
--
It is raining, conversation is sparse, and what little there is tends toward spectacularly deep and quotable reflections of personal discovery -- most of my fellow travelers are just coming of age. I'm afraid that while I am certainly the most advanced in years, I have less pithy advice to dish out than our thief-friend, Callot.
--
List.
- Cordry/Cor. Male. Slightly rash and awkward kid with magical abilities as yet untapped. Looks to become a great strapping hero. Has many moments of budding self-actualization.
- Glimerys. Female. Rambunctious farmhand we rescued from stake-burning. Skilled with blade and dagger; of mysterious descent. Remembers little of the past but at opportune moments reveals bits and pieces that hint of royalty. Totally has a thing for Cor.
- Freiya. Female. Gentle fountain of eloquent wisdom. Fair-haired and probably has a hidden talent. Also totally has a thing for Cor.
Just as I have decided, with my trusty terrible timing, to compile a list of those in our adventuresome clan, I have been told we are about to reembark. I have only had time to transcribe the triad at our core before I was told we must continue our trek through this range of colorless rock.
The rest must wait. Cor is demanding rashly that I lead the way. It's my moment to act the part of the wise and wary world-weary wanderer. Wish me luck.
Legends told the tale of a young lad who would one day rise to the throne of Gorgos and rule all of Atlas in tranquility and splendor. He would be accompanied by a maiden with hair that flowed deep fiery red and eyes that blazed like the bluest ocean deeps; by another maiden with lighter-colored hair, whose heart ached in unrequited love; by a thief on the run from the guild he betrayed, whose heart none could fathom, least of all himself; by a prince on the run from the kingdom he hated; by a bow-wielding bard who spoke the language of animals; by a mystical creature unknown to the worlds of men; by a powerful gypsy who sang the moon and whistled the sun (not sure what the legend meant by that one); and by another man, a taller one, who would die assisting the lad to fulfill his destiny.
My name is Lucard. I'm the taller man.
--
I come from the town of Toradun, otherwise known as Pig Harbor. This isn't because we specialize in the herding of pigs, or are even within fifty miles of the sea. Rather, in the ancient Year of Town-Naming some centuries ago, King Georthos XVII the Unifier met with our then-mayor to determine a proper title for our then-unnamed town. The story says the meeting went by just fine...until it came down to actually deciding a name. Eventually it was called 'Toradun,' after the mayor's first-born son, due to uncommonly vehement pressure from the mayor's wife, who literally barricaded the door to the mayor's home with her large girth until the frightened king graciously acquiesced. Then, back at his palace, King Georthos made a joke among his courtiers about how our then-mayor could keep such an obnoxious wife, though the words he used became, eventually, the ever-popular nickname for our town.
Forgive my long-windedness. Our party is currently in the Mountain of Colorless Rock, awaiting the next prophecy to dictate our next action, and it is immensely boring. I am merely fulfilling an earlier prophecy that I would be the recorder of the journey, writing tales of our escapade for a future boring day.
--
It is raining, conversation is sparse, and what little there is tends toward spectacularly deep and quotable reflections of personal discovery -- most of my fellow travelers are just coming of age. I'm afraid that while I am certainly the most advanced in years, I have less pithy advice to dish out than our thief-friend, Callot.
--
List.
- Cordry/Cor. Male. Slightly rash and awkward kid with magical abilities as yet untapped. Looks to become a great strapping hero. Has many moments of budding self-actualization.
- Glimerys. Female. Rambunctious farmhand we rescued from stake-burning. Skilled with blade and dagger; of mysterious descent. Remembers little of the past but at opportune moments reveals bits and pieces that hint of royalty. Totally has a thing for Cor.
- Freiya. Female. Gentle fountain of eloquent wisdom. Fair-haired and probably has a hidden talent. Also totally has a thing for Cor.
Just as I have decided, with my trusty terrible timing, to compile a list of those in our adventuresome clan, I have been told we are about to reembark. I have only had time to transcribe the triad at our core before I was told we must continue our trek through this range of colorless rock.
The rest must wait. Cor is demanding rashly that I lead the way. It's my moment to act the part of the wise and wary world-weary wanderer. Wish me luck.
(Finished? Post a remark.)
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