The Tenner

[IdiotSavant]

Count Nicolo Alberti coughs apologeticly, takes a sip of wine from his goblet, then leans back in his chair. “Allow me to present my contribution”

The siege of Ascia

This is a story about Ascia, a town which is a neighbour to my native Floria. In ancient days, Ascia was ruled by the Ugolino family, under the usual arrangement: the townsfolk of Ascia gave their obedience and paid heavy taxes, and the Ugolini protected them from bandits, thieves, and greedy neighbours. For a long time the arrangement worked: raiders were seen off, merchants were protected, and those who harassed them on the roads were punished. Trade prospered, the wealth of Ascia’s merchants grew, and the Ugolini grew wealthy in turn.

Unfortunately, as often happens, wealth did not lead to satisfaction, but to greed. The Ugolini saw that by controlling more cities, they could grow even wealthier. So, they began to threaten Ascia’s neighbours, extorting them for tribute, and demanding that they accept Ugolini “protection”. When a town refused, they sacked it. The wealth flowed back not to Ascia, but to the Ugolini, who used it to fortify their castle and hire more men for their armies.

This situation went on for a number of years, causing great dissatisfaction in the region, until another town Aurelium, took a stand. The town council of Aurelium united the local towns, and pooled their resources to defend themselves against the Ugolini. The people of Ascia, feeling threatened, fortified their town, building themselves a strong wall with towers and laying in supplies in case of attack. They were right to do so, because Aurelium and its allies marched on Ascia and laid siege to both the town and the neighbouring castle. The Ascians were safe behind their new wall, but they could not trade, and the Ugolini did not dare venture forth to defend them.

The siege went on for months, supplies ran low, and the people of Ascia began to grow hungry. And as they did, their dissatisfaction with the Ugolini grew. What had their obedience brought them but an unwelcome war? What had their taxes paid for but starvation? Instead of being protected by the Ugolini, the Ascians were protecting themselves, through a wall they had built through their own efforts. They were transforming, from obedient servants into a rebellious, self-reliant citizens.

Eventually, the chef merchant families decided that they should break ties with the Ugolini, and henceforth defend themselves. They sued for peace with Aurelium and its allies, paid a token compensation (arguing that they were as much victims of Ugolini aggression as their neighbours), and when the Ugolini fortress was finally taken, sent workers to raze it to the ground so it could never again threaten them or their neighbours. They established themselves as a merchant republic, and to this day have no lord or master.

As for the Ugolini, they moved to Floria, started a bank, and are wealthy still.

[lesbiancobra]

Lady Seraphina Trideska leaned forward, as if she’d suddenly remembered something. “I think I may have something to contribute…

There was a sorcerer king once, a man arrogant enough to believe he could conquer death. He thought to seal himself away inside an impermeable membrane, and wake as a new man. He’d watched the insects in his garden, and seen how they closed themselves off before emerging, changed and more powerful, and he wanted that metamorphosis for himself.

The sorcerer king stayed awake for many days and nights, neglecting his kingdom and reading everything he could get his hands on about the insects, about how they worked and how they transformed. He learned all there was to know about insect life cycles, but that wasn’t enough. Not for the man clever enough to conquer death. So he went to a wise woman, a woman legend said was older than the hills. He didn’t believe everything he heard about the wise woman, of course. He was a clever man, and knew when the peasants’ tales were exaggerated, or just fabricated entirely. When the wise woman gave him incantations to recite, and incense to burn, he made sure to demand the reason for everything she told him, and to question anything he thought was wrong. It chafed, you see, having to ask this wizened old woman for help, when he was so very clever, and so very much more important than she, and the only reason he stayed was the remnants of a chrysalis that he could see through her bedroom doorway, protruding from under her bed. If she could do it, he reasoned, then surely it would be a trifle for him.

The great sorcerer king returned home, burned his incense and recited all his clever spells, and he sealed himself away, waiting to transcend his mortal form and conquer death itself.

As the membrane closed itself over him, he thought of everything he would achieve in his immortality – the neighbouring kingdoms he could crush beneath his fist, the towns and cities he would remodel to suit his every whim, never worrying about being forgotten, always there to insert himself into stories and history, always beloved and always feared.

And for all I know he’s still in there, plotting and scheming away… Still, at least the old king got one thing he wanted. I heard all this from the wise woman, the woman older than the hills, who told me that the sorcerer king wanted to be remembered. Of course, he wanted to be a conquering hero and inspiring ruler, not a cautionary tale, but we can’t always get what we want now, can we?

[Cat]

Oh my gods, you guys are amazing with all the ways you took that prompt, so intricate, so detailed.

As the day is now well and truly over… Count Nicolo Alberti, you have The Prompt. I repeat, you have The Prompt.

(For the people who didn’t get their stories in yesterday - you can post your fills late if you still want to do them, or just pick up with the next Day’s prompt. Cheers.)

[IdiotSavant]

I won’t be able to write my story until later in the day, but today’s theme is:

sacrifice.

I look forward to seeing people’s stories.

[BlackDragonRaider]

Amazing stuff all. Just the kind of thing I needed after flinging myself about on a forklift all day

[IdiotSavant]

Count Nicolo Alberti calls everyone together in the garden - a well-organised space, studded with statues and fountains, and wide lanes between the shrubbery. There is a reflecting pool, and off to one side, a hedge-maze. “I thought we’d have a change of scene. It is a fine day, and Lady von Schwartzweald’s gardens should provide a pleasant backdrop to today’s stories. And maybe some of its features will provide inspiration”.

“Today’s theme is ‘sacrifice’. And so I present to you:”

The sacrifice of the Great

This is a story from my father’s time. In those days, Floria was newly come upon greatness, and had not yet settled upon its current governing arrangements, or its stability. Many new ideas were being explored, as the thriving city tried to decide what it should become - new arts, new sciences, new magics, new constitutions.

Among these ideas was a new god. The followers of Inopia arrived in Floria from the North, preaching a creed of poverty and humility, and it quickly found a following among the city’s poor. Their high priest, Severus, led large public rallies in the city’s squares, denouncing the wealthy and the ruling Council Of The Great, and demanding it be replaced with a popular government.

As the unrest grew, the Council Of The Great became concerned. While none wanted to yield power, some believed it would be difficult to stand against the city’s people, and argued for a strategy of delay and accommodation to allow the unrest to die down. But the dominant faction believed Severus was a threat to themselves and the security of the city, and hatched a plot to murder him. It was unsuccessful, and when the wounded Severus showed his injuries to the crowd, and the captured assassins were forced to confess who had given the orders, the people rose. At this stage, many of the wealthy - my father among them - fled the city for their country estates. But not all were so lucky, and many of the greatest families were trapped.

The new popular government argued over what to do with the Great, and what was demanded by the teachings of Inopia. They decided that a sacrifice was called for: if the Great sacrificed their wealth and symbols of their finery then they might become properly humble. The Great, greedy for life, agreed. Great bonfires were built in the city square, and family after family fed them with gold, jewellery, fine clothing, rich tapestries and paintings. But when all was melted and burned, Severus argued that the the quantity was so great that it was evidence of tremendous sin, which could only be punished with death. The people agreed, and so every one of the Great was hanged from the city walls.

Some might think from this that the Great’s sacrifice was pointless - and, in the immediate view, it certainly was. But nothing lasts forever. Severus in turn was overthrown as a new idea took hold of the people. The exiles and survivors were allowed to return. And when they did, they found a clean slate for art. The explosion of creativity which followed, which has made Floria one of the greatest cities in the world, was very much the result of the sacrifice of the Great.

[TheTimCrow]

Tzar Boyanov clapped his hands once, loundly as to draw attention. “Sacrifice? There is a historical tale that has many lessons that can be learned.” He looked around the garden and the warm day they stood in.

The Horselords of the Unending Steppe.

There are hard lands of unending rolling grass, golden and waving like the sea. The rains never settle in once place and the people of these lands move their entire lives to follow the rains. They live in hide tents and travel on horseback, and it is said they’re in the saddle from birth. These people are horselords without compare.

Nowdays they are nomads but they are a fierce and unbroken people and have been for time immemorial. It was recorded as being the 13th century when the Rus first met the horselords of the east, riding endlessly west. The sages first recorded small forces, and the lords of towns sought to meet the horselords, but they did not understand that the horde which swept across the lands was too large to be a single force without starving itself. Messengers ride between forces each able to rival the armies of the lords and then the foolish resistance meet a foe who lines the entire horizon with cavalry, from the north to the south. They were crushed.

Our tale tells of two cities.

Each was large. Each was walled. Each was defended. And horses cannot climb walls. Yet the horselord rode to the walls and demanded the sacrifice of men, of women, of gold, and treasures.

The first city, arrogant in high walls said that they would not pay this sacrifice in surrender to the horselords. The price, was too high. And so the horselords surrounded the city, rode over the fields and made it an island of stone in a sea of horseflesh.

The second city, cowardly, sacrificed their men and women, their gold and treasure. The horselords took all that was given, and appointed rulers.

Who sacrificed more? The price paid so far seems not so large?

The second city was forced to work for the horselords. Each year, the food, the gold, and the people of the second city were sent east, gone forever. The people improvrished, ruled by foreign peoples from a far away land.

The first city was safe behind its walls. For a time. But there were fewer and fewer soliders on the ramparts. The taunting of the horselords went unanswered. And the walls stood silent. The horselords were not just riders, they had mighty iron weapons from the lands in furtherest east, great cast cannons, and they had finally arrived. With roars of thunder the walls were blasted, and eventually, they fell open.

Who sacrificed more? The price paid seems high.

The second city was run to the ground, the farmers moving away as the tithes stole the food from their plate, and the silver from their purses. The craftspeople, they packed up and trekked east, to the lands of the Poles. The city withered, and eventually, crumbled.

The first city was broached open, and the stink of the dead wafted open, for the food and run out, the livestock eaten, the rats caught, and then, the people turned on one another. The invaders took what they could, and left the terrible place, burning it as they left.

Who sacrificed more? Either price is too high.

The tale is a warning. You cannot appease your problems, they will devour all you have and more until you are worn to nothing. You cannot ignore your problems, they will fester and you will weaken.

You cannot sacrifice your way to greatness. Neither city was great. The Horselords were great. They cared for their peoples, they had an honour of sorts. When challenged, they replied with spear and bow. They ruled, thousands of miles from their homelands, for two hundred years.

Take what you can hold. Fight for every bit of it. Sacrifice nothing. You may die. But if you let your grip weaken, you will certainly die.

[lesbiancobra]

Lady Seraphina smiles. "I have a somewhat different tale…

Two neighbouring kingdoms had been at war for a decade, neither ever managing to outsmart or outmatch the other. The northern kingdom was watched over by a cruel, bloodthirsty god, and eventually with their god’s help, they ran the southern kingdom almost into the ground. The Queen of the northern kingdom was kinder than her god, though, and she called a meeting, asking that the southern kingdom give up its treasures in exchange for peace.

The southern kingdom gave up its gold and jewels, and disbanded its armies, but the end of all the negotiations the Queen of the northern kingdom was still unsatisfied. She wandered the grounds of the negotiation hall, trying to work out what the southern kingdom could possibly give her to make up for all those years of hardship and violence. While she was walking, she caught sight of a princess, the only daughter of the southern Queen, and the most beautiful woman the northern Queen had ever seen. She returned to the negotiation hall and laid down her final condition: the Princess’ hand in marriage. The southern Queen readily agreed, for her daughter was headstrong and stubborn, and their relationship had been deteriorating anyway.

The northern Queen brought her Princess back to her castle, telling the Princess that she understood her sacrifice, giving up her home to save her country, and promising that she would make it up to her. True to her word, the Queen treated the Princess as a friend, an equal, and once she realised the Princess was as intelligent as she was beautiful, a political advisor. And after a while, the inevitable happened when two beautiful, intelligent people are placed in close proximity – the Queen and her Princess fell in love.

Some of the northern subjects were against this, of course, reasoning that a foreign Princess could only be plotting to betray their kingdom and their Queen, and they were not at all reassured when the Queen responded to their concerns by saying she would gladly give up her kingdom in exchange for the love of her Princess. The Princess, being just as much of a romantic if a little sharper-tongued, demanded to know if they thought her love so trivial that she would undo it all with an act of betrayal. The subjects returned to grumbling amongst themselves, and they soon had more serious problems to worry about.

The northern kingdom still had their cruel god, and he had been forgotten in their time of peace. As punishment, the northern god sent down a famine, and demanded that the Queen who had neglected him choose to destroy one of the two things she valued most in the world: her kingdom, and her Princess. The Queen knew what she had to do, not that knowing made it any easier. She begged her Princess for forgiveness, but knew she couldn’t place her own love over the lives of everyone in her kingdom. “My foolish Queen,” the Princess replied. “Do you think my love for you so trivial that you could undo it with a single act?”

Well, as I am sure you’re all aware, saying no to a god is always a risky proposition – but that is what the Queen did. She refused to give up either her Princess or her kingdom, and in exchange she offered her own life, on her own terms.

Now here the story diverges. Some say that the god accepted the Queen’s sacrifice, that she dropped dead there on the castle floor, and that the Princess took over the kingdom and ruled through her grief.

The ending I like better, though, is the one where the god accepted all the Queen’s terms, where the Queen gave up her life – her full, long life – not to her petty god but to her Princess and her kingdom, promising that for however long she lived, she would be theirs.

One life for two loves. Not so bad a sacrifice, if you ask me.

[Stephanie]

“You are all telling stories of great cities and battles, so I shall tell one,” Edward Farthing said, holding a late rose between his fingers.

The Tale of Cloelia

"A long time ago when the great city of Rome laid claim to its seven hills and no more, their neighbours to the north, from the Po Valley and such like laid siege to the city. The Romans like to remember this story for the sacrifice of its soldiers, of Horatius who held a bridge long enough for it to be destroyed, of Gaius Mucius who, on failing to assassinate the enemy general, stuck his hand in the fire to prove he was no coward. But at the end of it all, Rome lost the siege, and as many do when it matters, the sacrifice they chose to buy peace was their young: young girls, young boys, their lives ahead of them, a gift to Porsena the victor.

"One of these girls, Cloelia, had no taste for a life of slavery in the Etruscan lands. She was clever and quick and brave, she stole a horse and herself, and led forty young virgins from the camps of the Etruscans and thence to the river Tiber where they swam across in the dark of night.

“This was no good of course. When she snuck into the home of her mother, the old woman wept, and insisted that the girl stay silent and hidden that she might not be seized again. They sat in the dark and spoke in whispers, the goodbyes that they had not had time to say in the bright day, stories and tales of Cloelia’s childhood. In the morning they were discovered and the city fathers dragged Cloelia and the other girls out to the city gates where Porsena waited for his tribute to be returned. Not all sacrifices are willing, as we all know.”

Edward plucked a petal from the rose and held it on his palm.

“But the triumphant part of the story is this: Porsena the Etruscan general was so impressed by the bravery of the girl he now owned that he told her she might choose half the hostages to be returned to the city of Rome. It is said that Cloelia chose the young men to be returned, so that they could continue the defence of Rome. Not all sacrifices are willing, but sometimes they are accepted.” He blew the petal from his palm. “The city father’s erected a statue of the girl, mounted on a horse, giving her the honours of a knight. Of the young men she saved, nothing more is known. Probably they died.”

“What happened to Cloelia after?” a voice asked from the listeners.

Edward shrugged with disinterest. “They don’t say.”

[Stephanie]

[Maybe give it a couple of days before changing the theme? I’m figuring some of us are working from home or out doing essential stuff, so daily updates might not be achievable for every participant.]

[Cat]

I was planning on rolling over Wednesday morning.

I want people to have a reasonable amount to fill their prompts, but, I don’t want the game to stall either. There’s no penalty for missing a prompt or filling late - just pick back up when you can.

[Cat]

In her spacious gardens, Lady Yekaterina stands by the entrance to her hedge-maze. Her long fingers touch with care the frondy shoot of one of the cypresses, rigidly pruned, that make up the spiralling walls of the maze.

She glances up, and seems almost surprised to see her guests dotted about the more open areas. Plucking the shoot with a snap of her fingers, she walks back to mingle among them, her heels clicking on the laid stones of the path.

The Queen, the Girl, and the Dust on the Road

There is a road that curls through the dry lands that is itself dry, a mere dent of a track pitted, here and there, with the traces of long-forgotten wheels.

A girl sat beside it, in a dirty linen smock. Her feet were grey from the dust of the road, her eyes the simple colour of a pebble in a dried-up stream. She sat there, and watched, as a chariot juddered towards her.

There was a queen driving the blood-red chariot. Her fine linen turban was very white, and the gold at her wrists and turquoise at her neck flashed bright in the fierce sun. Her jade-handled whip, when she used it, curled gently out into the air and stroked but gently the flank of the great maned lion that pulled the traces of her vehicle and prowled the road on soft clawed feet.

“Where are you going?” called the girl, impudent and nameless.

“Why, I am going to the Land of the Dead,” called the queen, “to speak with the Woman who lives there. It isn’t far.”

“It never is,” muttered the girl, licking her lips. She was very thirsty.

The queen quietened her lion until he stopped on the road, and alighted. “You are very impudent, little girl, do you not know how to speak to your betters?”

The girl looked at the jade-handled whip in the queen’s hand and shrugged. “I’m common. And ignorant. That’s what they tell me.”

The queen laughed and sat down on a jagged rock beside her. “It occurs to me,” she said, sweeping her robes of state around her like a tide, “that the Land of the Dead is not so near as all that. And the day is long to not share meat and drink wine with a chance-met stranger.”

The girl shrugged. A scab on her knee itched and she picked at it, callow thing that she was. But the queen flicked out a napkin and set out items of food and drink, and stared at the girl until she picked them up in her dirty hands. Snap-snap! Glug-glug! All gone.

“Where are you going?” asked the girl, wiping red wine off her lips with the back of her hand.

“I told you, to the Land of the Dead. I must speak with the Woman who lives there, for it is the way of things. There are seven gates there, did you know? When I reach the first gate I will give over my chariot, for one walks into death or not at all. When I reach the second, I will take off my turban of snow-white linen, to join the humble. At the third gate, because the rich die with the poor, I give them the golden bands about my wrists. At the fourth, my rich beads of lapiz-lazuli, for the water that flows under the earth.” The queen sighed heavily, looking at the lion. “At the fifth gate I lose my companion, because we all walk alone in death.” Her fingers curled lightly about the handle of her whip. “In time I must surrender that about me which draws blood. It will be difficult, for there, also, lies my majesty…”

“And the seventh, the seventh gate?” asked the girl.

“Tut!” the queen said sharply. She rose then, very proud, very tall, and strode back to her chariot.

The girl stood, in the dust of the road, watching the queen, her head high as thunderclouds, prepare to continue her journey. “But how do you come out again?” she called.

“Oh! As to that,” said the queen carelessly, “if even one person in the land of the living weeps for me, it will be well.” And she flicked her jade-handled whip, the tail of it curling high over her lion’s back, and he took her further down the dust-covered road.

Lady Yekaterina shrugs, holding the sprig of cypress between her fingers and nipping it with her thumbnail, so the dark resin scent hovers all about.

“But who can weep in the dry lands?” she asks, and lets the cypress fall.

[BlackDragonRaider]

From the darkest corner of the room, an unassuming, slight man of no greater height than a kings finest wolfhound coughed slightly, stood up and moved forward. This event should have had no need of mention, but the man strode forward in the most insignificant manner conceivable. One minute he was at the back of the room, the next he stood in the centre of it, and somehow noone noticed how this innocuous action actually occurred.

The man cleared his throat, and began to speak.”Most of you will not know me. This is as it should be, because I have no wish to be notable. Where I come from is of no matter. I have a master, but he is of no consequence. Where I travel and what I have seen is really of no interest.”

“If that is so, why do I stand in front of you, it may be asked?” He shrugged very slightly. “For what it is worth, my life, and the life of those who have gone before me, and those who will go after me wander the earth collecting wisdom. Wisdom is the greatest tool anyone could ever wish to wield, yet it is the one so often left on the bench of life when great things need to be crafted. Those who have gone before me here”, at which point he bowed to the previous speakers in the room, “have aided me greatly in my search, and I feel obliged to give something in return.”

He straightened, which surprised everyone in the room as it was never apparent he was slouching, turned his eyes to everyone in the room, and began to speak in a clear oratory.

“My name is Amar Lukmanl Rashad bin Hameed, and this is the story of how I came to be who I am. I would not normally speak of this, but I speak of wisdom, and it is salutary for me to remind myself of why I engage in this search.” He closed his eyes briefly and then began to speak again.

“It begins with a woman, and a beautiful one at that. A tall and gracious woman with black hair that fell almost to her feet, and the Kings of the countries beyond the sea sent ambassadors asking for her hand in marriage.” At this, everyone in the room stared intently at the man, as if they had all heard this particular story before. A small smile formed on the mans face. “But isn’t this how most of these stories start?” His face took on a more sombre visage again. “In this case, however, the stories cannot do her justice. From the day she was removed from her mothers womb, she had the attention of everyone who perchance to happen upon her was immediately smitten. The stories of cats, dogs, horses and children following her about like cygnets following their mother are multitude, and people showered her with with gifts and favours just so they might garner her attention. Nobody escaped her hypnotic gaze.

“Above all those who loved her, the one who loved her most was her father, who moved heaven and earth to make sure she obtained whatever she desired. She came from a very wealthy and powerful family, so this was no Rhodopis story. Nothing was ever denied from her. Noone ever spoke ill of her.”

All was well, until one day, a foreigner came to the womans home with only a lyre and the sound of his voice. He asked to stay for a short while, as he had travelled far and knew noone around. In return for a bed and some food, he would provide entertainment at the evening meal. This sounded reasonable, so he was taken in, and for the next week, the whole house was spellbound with tales of love and loss, victory and heartbreak, fortune and misadventure. At the end of the week, the woman was so taken with the stranger that she demanded he stay on, but he declined.”

“‘I must move on, for so is my way’, he said. ‘Time is like a moss, and if you stand in place the moss will grow over, and make you forget the semblance of the man you once were’. The woman insisted, but the man again refused. ‘I am always in need of a travelling companion, however. If you wish to come with me, I shall be more than pleased with the company. Be aware though that if you venture on the journey with me, you will have to leave all you know and all the things you have behind, as burden is a thing that slows any journey.’ The womans father began to protest, but he did not protest long, as he knew the futility of it. The man took the womans hand, and the instant they touched, they dissolved together into a mist, gone to some realm beyond anything that is known to us who walk this land.”

Amar began to walk back to where he was seated. “On the womans birthday, she returned to her father as a vision, saying to him “I wanted for nothing, and achieved my desires without giving thought to them. But now I see that I erred in my ways. If I want things, I must go and find them. I must not think that the world will come to me, for there is so much more beyond that. Oh father, oh father I know what you must think, but I tell you this. Give up your wealth. Give up your position, and fade into the shadows.”

Amar returned to where he was originally standing, and this time everyone knew he had returned there. “Roam the light and shadows, and find true wisdom. Do this enough, and one day you will find me.”

“And so we did. All the people in the house who so loved her faded into the background, and”

At this point, he stopped. There was a confused pause, as everyone looked around. Somehow, the man had vanished from the room without anyone realising, and was nowhere to be seen.

Lady Yekaterina stared around the room. “And so the story continues….”

[Cat]

Heh. That was fun

[BlackDragonRaider]

Thanks It’s been a while since I’ve done anything like this, and it actually takes a bit of time to get your mind into the right set. Really enjoyed doing it though!

[Cat]

Again, those were all just lovely, intriguing interpretations of the prompt. Thank you so much guys.

Theorectically Mel is next, but she hasn’t been in touch, either in this thread or responding to my pm.

Eh. Real Life happens. In the interests of keeping this game moving, I’ll wait until mid-day and if she’s still out of touch will play a prompt from the dummy. (And she can pick up one of the later slots, if she wants.)

As ever, it’s okay to fill late or not at all - this is about having a good time.

Cheers, all.

[u_ne_korn]

I’m sorry all, it turns out I’m much busier than I expected to be, considering everything.
And Diatribe wont let me reply to you directly Cat, I have no idea what’s going on there.

The prompt for today is …
The Long Way

[Cat]

Huh. That is weird.

Take care of yourself, yeah? And thanks for the prompt

(Next prompt rollover is on Friday morning, with RobotPie.)

[BlackDragonRaider]

In a garden, there is a caterpillar. Also in the garden is a leaf the caterpillar greatly desires to eat.

And so the caterpillar wriggles on.

Around the flowering roses.

Over the loose twigs.

Under the ornamental arch.

Betwixt the faded garden gnomes.

Through the fresh lawn clippings.

And onto the plant with the leaves that it yearns for.

And then the gardner, who the caterpillar had so carefully wriggled around, sees it, picks it up, and places it at the other end of the garden.

In a garden, there is a caterpillar. Also in the garden is a leaf the caterpillar greatly desires to eat.

[Stephanie]

[Chuckle. That one did make me laugh.]

When the guests found Edward Farthing again, he was ensconced in the library, dapper in his grey suit, intently studious on the pad of drawings before him. When he realised he had been observed, he blushed slightly, but held up the pad and, riffling the pages with his thumb, let his visitors see a picture of a little man trying, and failing, to climb a ladder to comedic effect.

“The long way?” he said to the Monarch of that day. “Hmm, I might have a little something.”

The Persistence of Desire

"This is a story of Tangaroa. Few travel to that world, for it is bleak, but those that know its grey skies and limitless oceans love it. No one swims there: the oceans are inhospitable to the children of Earth who traveled there on their silver ships, their cloudpiercers; but to a Tangaroan it is a normal profession to work out one’s days on the great rigs that mine the waters for the heavy metals dissolved in them, or as a child to comb the stony beaches for shellfish made of silver and gold.

"This is a story of a boy and a girl who were born on Tangaroa and raised there, the one looking out into the sea, the other with her eyes firmly fixed on the grey clouds waiting for the days when they would clear and she could see a little glimpse of the sun or the stars. Her name was Marama, the enlightened moon.

"As children do when they are loved and fed and sheltered, the two came of age and were happy, but then their lives altered. This young woman, Marama, studied hard, got herself an apprenticeship first in the orbital platform that circled her soggy homeworld, thence to a great star liner that plumbed the other depths, the atea between the stars.

"The young man loved her, but knew that his life path was to crew the ships that sailed on the seas of water. He kissed her when she left on her first voyage, for he would not see her for many years.

"One year, two years, five years passed, and then another five. The Aoraki returned, and with it the woman who shone like the hidden moon. They spent the months of her long leave walking on the beach, and climbing the jagged mountains that grew above the little settlement in which they had been raised. He kissed her again on the forehead when she left, and they pressed noses that they might share their breath.

"More years and more, and Marama returned again, still youthful, still vibrant, for those who sail between the stars live their lives stretched out like beams of light. Little passes for them in the years that are so momentous to us. She had tales of Old Earth this time, and a stone she had been given from the first cloud piercer Aoraki itself that she gave to the tohunga of her home. Her friend, the man who loved her, was not able to climb the mountains this time, but they walked on the beach.

"And more years. This time when Marama returned she had lines in the corners of her eyes for even starfarers feel a little of the touch of time. Her friend was an old man now, who walked with a stick carved of rare wood, gifted with the patterning of a master carver. His face, too, was patterned with the story of his life, for he was considered wise by the people of his home. That year they became lovers, in his little house by the sea. When it was time for Marama to leave for the stars again they wept, but they shared their breath all the same.

“And so it goes. Each time Marama returned to her home she knew that her love might have passed into the deep waters from which none return, for the waters of Tangaroa are hard on the body. But riddle me this, for I can not con it. In their love story, who went the long way around? The one who travelled far in distance, or the one who walked each day in time? Tell me that, for a charity.”