《The Compendium Allegoriian》 The Rumour of the Potter & the Candle Maker

The Rumour of the Potter & the Candle Maker

[version 1.6] The note was found in the old man''s coat pocket. It was written on durable parchment, and quite firmly (a trick to accomplish using a quill, I can tell you) - written so, perhaps in order that it might be better remembered: Just begin, already! You''re already as ready As you''ll ever be ready to be. What the man (or whoever had written the note for him) had meant to begin, it is now but for the Crow to know. His old heart had given out on the way, having by then spent one too many a day, disconnected. In one still-warm hand, he clutched flowers stolen from the King''s meadow nearby, and in the other, an old hammer. In his belt pouch were seven old nails, which had each seen better days. 1 When the old potter who lived in the ramshackle hut just up the lane - the hut with the roof which had been in sore need of mending for the last seven seasons - when she heard the particulars of her neighbour''s passing, she went into a month of mourning. She had hardly known the old candle maker for all that time they had shared a lane, but felt his loss nonetheless, and also anew.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. When the townsfolk came to the man''s place to auction his land and tools (he had left no known heirs), they found the front door curiously taken off its hinges, though none of the cabin''s contents seemed otherwise out of place. His candles were of unexceptional quality, made with enough care to be of use, but not enough to be of added value otherwise. What was a surprising find was the old trunk stuffed tight with journals, maps, sketches, and histories of the Realm. No one had suspected the candlemaker had ever learned to read. Who needed to do that, to make candles? Some mysteries, made great - because they are small. Some lessons, learned late (if not soon) - though as often as not, never at all. B.B. Butterwell''s Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal

Footnotes

  1. There had also been a small wedge of cheese in the pouch as well, though by the time the village folk found the man, this had been taken by a rat. ?
The Rumour of the Tinesmith & the Mountain

The Rumour of the Tinesmith & the Mountain

[version 1.2] The Tinesmith, having lost his wife and child to the War, had climbed the Mountain which overlooked their village, so that he might throw himself from it, and join them wherever it was they had gone. This, though, had been a full year ago, and he had not gone through with the throwing, owing to an inspiration which he had had in that fateful decisive moment upon the ledge: he had the inspiration which led him to invent the Fadle.1 It had been the shape of an unusual Cloud which had done it - one which reminded him perfectly of both a ladle and a fork at once - and for a moment the Suns caught that Cloud just-so, in a wondrously curious cross-fire... and thus, the Tinesmith had seen in his keen mind''s eye the Fadle, and gone on to better things... but by a different route than he had intended to, that mourning. He had not been looking at the clouds at all, however, but at the ground far below, through blurred vision. It was the sudden flight of a startled, nearby Startling (which are, quite famously, easily startled), which had caused the Tinesmith to look up just then, as it launched itself from its perch (which had been in a nearby Birch). This Startle-ing of the Startling had happened only because a small Stone had chosen just that moment to dislodge itself from an ancient, nearby Boulder (which is what made that Stone a Stone in the first place), and the Boulder had done that because the Mountain had told it to - and the Boulder always did what the Mountain told it to.2If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. And why had the Mountain told the Boulder to release the Stone which Startled the Startling that distracted the Tinesmith enough to look up, and so see the Cloud that inspired the famous Fadle? I will tell you this tale... if I am, by you, allowed to be able.

Footnotes

  1. What is called the Fadle in my Realm is not unlike what is commonly referred to as the Spork in yours. ?
  2. The Mountain mostly just told the Boulder to sit tight, until it would be needed. Mountains are naught if not quite patient and wise (unsurprising, for their size). ?
B.B. Butterwell''s Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal The Rumour of the Blue Jacket & the Yellow Cap

The Rumour of the Blue Jacket & the Yellow Cap

[version 1.2] It was nigh-midnight, and the moon was full upon the Garden. The Gardeners, being Gnomes, had to be rather quick - lest they be discovered, and then (conceivably) cooked into a stew, to be had for dinner. This was Gnown to have happened to Other Gnomes in the past, and in other places.1 The first Gnome (who had a ratty, blue jacket, green pants, brown boots, orange cap, and white beard) turned to the second Gnome (who had a green coat, red pants, black boots, fancy yellow cap, and red beard), and said in an urgent whisper, "Hurry up!! For the Havens'' sake, the Bugbears will be back at any moment!" His companion, who was furious-digging with a small tin spade (small spades being normal-sized to a Gnome) looked up, already panicking, and hissed back in an irritated, counter-whisper, "I am digging as quick as I can! Keep your voice down- there are Bugbears about, you gnow!" The first (Ratty Blue Jacket) waved his pudgy arms in exasperation, "Yes, yes. I gnow all about the Bugbears! I am the one who told you about them!". Ratty Blue had the Sacred Seed Pouch ready - there was but one spade betwixt them (spades being in short supply, most having recently been remade into swords). Being unable to help with the digging, Ratty Blue (or Mr. Jacket, to me or you) just chose instead to hop around in an agitated way, at how much time Fancy Yellow (Ms. Cap, to any other fellow) was taking to dig the hole. "Stop your hopping around!" Fancy shot back, still trying to keep quiet, "You''ll attract an Owl! Do you have the Seeds ready? Be ready with the Seeds!" Ratty had the Seeds, of course - Of course he had the seeds. That had been his whole job, holding them all this time. He bristled at the thought that Fancy might think that he had not. The idea of an Owl being nearby... it made his blood run suddenly cold. He had heard so many stories of Owls, and how they stole and swooped off with Gnomes, to put them in pots to cook them in stews. He tried not to think about it. "Of course I have the Seeds! What do you think I have been holding all this time, while you''ve been digging? Are you not done digging yet?!" He could barely manage his terror - this Garden was Gnown for its Owls and Foxes and Cats and Bugbears, and even Bees. He had become altogether weak in the knees.3 "It''s done", announced Fancy Yellow Cap, with satisfaction. She had counted exactly seventy-seven small spadefuls - the depth felt correct as well. They would both only gnow for certain, of course, seventy-seven years later, whether they had planted things properly. By then, they would both be either older, or else both long ago made into a stew of some sort. Fancy Yellow straightened, rubbed her sore back briefly, and motioned for Ratty Blue to drop in the Seeds. "Remember, precisely three, no more, no less". "Yes, yes" answered Ratty, already aware, "I gnow, of course. I can count, you gnow." Still, he counted three seeds, with great care, as he pulled them from the ancient, canvas pouch. One at a time, like they were precious pearls. One, then two, then three. He held them out in his chubby palm. Each was about the size of a grape. They were illuminated in the moonlight, and they began to hum softly. In spite of the grave dangers about, the two Gardeners stood in silence for an extra moment, in reverence of what they had been entrusted with - and then they looked at each other, and nodded in unison. Ratty Blue Jacket dropped the first one in the hole, with a plop. Then the second, with a plunk. Then, third seed extended between his pudgy fingers, Ratty paused, transfixed.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. "What is it??" Fancy said, waiting impatient with the spade, glancing around for dangers she Gnew were close. "Hurry up! Drop it in!" But Ratty was holding the third Seed aloft, toward the moonlight - it had an unusual cast, and its hum was... off. He held it toward his companion, and said, "I think this one is sour". "What do you mean, sour?" And she leaned in for a closer look. Just then, a loud sound like a cracking log jolted them both, and Mr. Jacket fumbled, and Ms. Cap dropped her spade while they both scrambled to catch the falling Seed, but it evaded their many pudgy, fumbling fingers, and fell into the hole with the others, with a wee thud. The tin spade hit a small stone and rang out. Both Gnomes, frantic, looked around for the source of the nearby noise - something was causing the ground to tremble! It was the weight of a large creature trying to be quiet, while searching for ingredients to put in a pot. Gnomes Gnew these noises well. Fancy hissed, "Quick! Leave it - we must go!", and she began hurried-kicking the soil back over the hole, having forgotten her spade in her rising panic. Ratty Blue, pale with fright, fell to his knees and began shovelling soil with his arms, and all of his remaining might. Something large and foul crashed through the brush and into the moonlit garden - its bulbous upper body borne upon long and spindly legs, and big ears a''twitch, nostrils flaring, sniffing the night air in great huffs. Its hatchet caught the moonlight as it stumbled about, and it gave a great and threatening growl.... But being a creature of no great imagination, the Bugbear did not consider looking up, into the boughs of the old elm overlooking the Garden, and it instead followed its nose toward the smell of savoury flesh coming from across the hedge on the far side of the garden. It galloped off through the hedge, where it would find a fish, and wolf it down in greedy gulps, tossing aside the ratty cloth which it had been wrapped in. Along the nearby river, two Gnomes - one in a yellow cap, and the other in green pants (and no jacket to speak of), ran headlong for the safety of the Hill. They kept running, without a word, until they found a large stone halfway up the Hill, and, needing to rest, both threw themselves down behind it, where the moonlight was least bright. For a long time the two just recovered their breath, and felt their own parts, to see if any were missing. Fancy regretted the loss of her spade, which she now remembered forgetting in the Bugbear''s Garden. She looked at her companion, seeing them in a new light, and said, "It was lucky that you had that fish still in your pocket. I will not tease you for carrying food in your pockets any more. Or for not being a strict vegetarian." Lucky Green Pants nodded absently, tugging at her flimsy undershirt and feeling the night chill. She missed her jacket already. It had been threadbare and full of patches for a long time, but it had become a part of who she had been, through all the adventures. But she and Fancy were still alive - and the Seeds had been planted. Never mind the sour one. Neither of them would mention that again, until Seventy-eight years later. B.B. Butterwell''s Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal

Footnotes

  1. At least, these ones had heard the stories of those - and Gardening Gnomes, as with all but one other kind of Gnome2, took stories particularly serious. ?
  2. We can talk about those ones later. Not my favourite subject. ?
  3. Blue Jackets were famously Gnown for having allergies to Bee stings. Ratty had heard so many terrifying stories of the malaises, hallucinations, and deathly illnesses that could be visited upon the unfortunately stung. Several among his kin had Gnown a Gnome who had seen or heard it happen. ?
Lore: The Wandering Ring

Lore: The Wandering Ring

[version 1.0] #rare, #semi-cursed, #high-resale-value The rumoured formula for creating a proper Wandering Ring is overly complex and frankly some of it is probably of no functional purpose, aside from making the making of one too complicated to consider completing, unless you enjoy complicated things. Most don''t, when you get right down to it, and so there aren''t as many magic rings about as you''d otherwise expect, since most Ring-makers like to employ this trick, to make themselves feel special. I will therefore omit the presumed steps for creating one entirely, and instead recount a short anecdote about one which I encountered, worn upon the finger of an apple merchant I met some years ago, who was nearly frozen to death high up in RazorWing Pass, by the time I stumbled upon him. I was on a trek, looking for some mcguffin1. I was hiking through RazorWing Pass, which as you know, is entirely perilous for the unwary. Only the most able of adventurers go there. Not apple merchants, certainly - even hale and/or hearty ones. My companions had fallen behind - my endurance was greater than theirs, and in any case, I had forged ahead to scout for dangers. I had slain nothing of consequence for the past several hours'' trek, and was frankly getting a bit bored. When I saw the apple merchant''s body slumped against a stone, half-covered in snow, I thought my luck was picking up, at least: there would be some loot, or a mystery, or else a clue upon him, to take my mind from the boredom. I approached with some caution, being of course aware of the likelihood of an ambush - but he was alone, and still alive. I began to tend to him, using my well-honed skills at survival, and my rudimentary knowledge of natural healing techniques. I had an extra blanket, which was fortunately always dry, and I wrapped the shivering man in it. My companions arrived sometime soon after, and, after some minutes of searching, we found a small but comfortable cave close by, and set up camp. It was a defensible position. The wizard needed to rest to recover his magical energies. The priest was being typically aloof. The Rogue had skulked away again, somewhere - no doubt to discuss nefarious plots with the tiny lesser demon which was hidden in their coat (and which they did not know we all knew about). As the man came to under our care, we noticed a most wondrous looking ring upon the large finger of his left hand. He told us his name was Yorl, (or Yarl, I don''t recall, it doesn''t matter), and that he was an apple merchant from the township of Halfway. Halfway! That was clear across the Isles, a month of hard walking, along with countless small boat trips or dangerous causeway voyages. I told him he was a liar, but he insisted he was speaking the truth. The priest asked him how he could have survived that journey - there were so many monsters and so much warfare between Halfway and these high peaks - so much encroaching ocean as well, and all the added perils thereof.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. He held his hand aloft, and spoke in exhausted breath of the wondrous and tragic enchantment of the Wandering Ring...

Wandering Ring [major enchantment]

A Wandering Ring, sometimes erroneously mistaken for the lesser, though better-known, Ring of Wandering, carries a powerful magic, with its benevolent aspect drawing power from its malevolent one, in order maintain the enchantment nigh-indefinitely. 2 Sages are of mixed opinion about the Ring''s objective value. The wearer of the Wandering Ring gains two distinct and powerful aspects, which typically both emerge at the same moment, sometimes around the first full-moon following the moment the ring is put on the wearer''s finger. The first aspect is a high resistance to physical harm and the effects of Ill Fortune. This is commonly referred to as Protection. The second aspect is a nearly insatiable need to keep wandering, typically, in either a particular compass direction, or else in reaction to the movement of the stars. This is referred to as the Ring''s Homeward Sense, and the aspect is typically referred to as Compulsion. The longer the wearer keeps the Ring upon their finger, the greater their need is to feel protected, and the greater their longing becomes to find their way finally home (for the Ring''s Homeward Sense soon becomes their own). The weak-willed wearer therefore wanders until their need to reach the Ring''s home outweighs its capacity to keep them safe while attempting to do. For those of stronger mind, a battle of wills between they and the originators of the Ring continues. To what aim these devices were first conceived, is fully conjecture. There are known to have been at least fifteen such Rings in existence, though of course the number could be much higher, as some are, by now, assumed to be at the bottom of the sea - or lost high in some distant mountain peak, or otherwise in the countless crannies and crevices of the Realms. B.B. Butterwell''s Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal

Footnotes

  1. I think it was a map or perhaps an enchanted set of gloves that would permit my companions and I entry into whatever the map had led us to, or would lead us to... the order in which one must encounter mcguffins becomes somewhat hard to recall, once they are no longer required. ?
  2. This energetic pattern, sometimes referred to as the Loop Surge pattern, is most commonly seen in enchantments from the South-Western regions of the Isles, from the time period circa WiM 2400 to WiM 600. ?
Lore: The Ever-Unlikeliiest Tower of Nor

The Ever-Unlikeliiest Tower of Nor

[version 1.1] #poem #warning #hope There Once is the Tower what''s name is now Nor stands listless and leaning on a near foreign shore and borne, bii the Ancient, at some time before Iiore - whilst willing no village surround them. Nobodii Gnows as for whii It be where It is standing apart for to scrape at the air so to make, for the lightnings, their labiirinth lair - though housing no keeper to ground them.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Seventeen chambers of a miiriad sihse with, rumoured amidst, a lamentable prihse all awaiting the Whethers of the Seas and the Skies - but bearing no signal to sound them. So make well what iiou can and take all which iiou will of iiour climb through mii column as iiou flee from mii hill when the head of me''s found iiou bii our storms'' coming chill the Mouse, and its Manors, must question their clamours - then live on, in the answers around them. B.B. Butterwell''s Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal ? The House of Addlebright

The House of Addlebright

An Allegoriian Origin Story [version 1.0] The two sisters Addlebright- little Mellodii and the quite-taller Ellavere - could not, of course, have known at the time that they had been about to wander into the heart of our story. But then they did. Ellavere sensed it first - being always perceptive. Mellodii, as was her nature, had been humming a happy tune as they walked, and not paying so much attention to other things. Ellavere held up her left hand, which was a single for them both to stop and consider the present situation. Mellodii''s tune faltered a bit, and she stopped walking. "Ella, what is-" "Shhh!" Ellavere waved her raised hand about, as she scanned their surroundings. They were in a glade, surrounded by butterflies, and the sun shower had recently stopped, and there was a rainbow behind them, over the distant mountains... but they had not noticed that last thing, since they had been walking the other way. Melodii had put her song away in a drawer in her mind, to return to later. She had thousands of these drawers. She looked behind her, at what Ellavere was already seeing - a beautiful rainbow. "Ohhh!" Both said at once. It was beautiful. "Ella...", Mellodii said, sidelong, not taking her eyes from the sight before them. The rainbow began over the Castle of the Kinged Queen Natheelia Neversorrii, soared into and through the perpetual wood-and-coal smoke of the town of Greater Glassworks, high into the azure blue above, and arced across it and then back down, plunging at last, somewhere behind the Razorspine Peaks. Ellavere felt inspired and afeared all at once. There was a tingle beneath her skin. "Ellaaa...", Mellodii said again, this time in the musical way she used to bring her sister out of conflicted moods. Ellavere looked at Mellodii. "Mello", she said, "How did we know the rainbow was there?" Mellodii had hoped Ella would know. Ella always knew most things before she did. Ella is where she acquired all of her sense of current events. "I''m not sure, really. We just did." They both looked again at the rainbow, which was already beginning to twinkle out, having reached its zenith at the exact moment it was perceived by the sisters - as though meant for them alone. But that was impossible. Surely, that was impossible. "Let''s sit and think", said Ellavere, and they both sat themselves down in the meadow, among the tall grasses and wildflowers. The butterflies found their ways around them, and a bee or three found them too, bumbling about (as they do). Mellodii voiced the next question which they had both been thinking, "Do you feel something? I mean-" "-something new, Yes. Yes, I do." Ellavere had, in fact, sensed the subtle shift right at the start of my story (which is just up top there, if you recall). "It is as though there has been a subtle shift in our... Fates. Something has fallen into place which wasn''t there before." "Yes," agreed Mellodii, "Even the place for that something to fall into, it feels to me, must also be new."This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Ellavere slow-nodded at this, somehow knowing it to be true. It had become too late to remain obscure. With a worried look, she whispered, "I think we''ve become... heroes, somehow." "Oh dear. Oh dear..." Mellodii did not like the sound of that. Not heroes. She was just barely no-longer a child, and Ellavere, though older, was surely not yet old enough either. It was too soon. "I don''t want to be a hero, though." "Neither do I - I certainly don''t want to be one either. But I feel we have, somehow... levelled up." "What? I don''t know what that is." Mellodii was looking about, nervously - as though a giant rat or sickly Goblin might appear at any moment, to harass them into some kind of action. Ellavere was taking out her small Field Guide for Surviving Rural Farmlands, which Master Morbidithurm had printed for the occasion of her assuming the role of Kinged Queen Candidate, at her recent age of eighteen. The small book was bound in rubber (she had refused leather from the age of four, on the basis of having met a nice cow, once before), and was tied in ribbons which her mother had made. She opened it to the section on Common Perils Whilst Out and About in the Isles. She found the entry she had recalled, and read it out loud:
"Common Peril Number Seven: Accidentally Becoming a Hero Whilst Wandering About Not quite as common as becoming thoroughly tangled in the Hedgewild, but somewhat more common than being nearly stampled by Running Wuggers during the wet season, is the still-too-common peril of becoming a Hero, in spite of all efforts to do otherwise. Precious few, it is true, wish to shoulder this burden, naturally, and so many will go to great lengths to ensure they never do. It can happen quite by apparent accident - not unlike tumbling into a pit, or walking into a tree, while reading something interesting about either of those things. Little is known of the exact mechanisms which cause this to occur. It is not believed (any longer) to be entirely by chance, and few these days believe it to be writ indelibly in the Stars, either. Heroship is, instead, both a chance and a choice - where the two meet, the Levelling Up can occur. It can be sudden then, and quite hard to avoid - like a raindrop, or a lightning bolt. It may sound and feel, in fact, like either of those, or even both. Or, actually, almost any other thing." Melodii had to interject at this point, "Who wrote this? It is a very odd story." "It''s not a story Mello", Ellavere corrected, "it is a compendium" "Alright." Mellodii didn''t follow. "It means it is a book of anecdotes, observations, speculations, and opinions - which is not the same as a narrative." Melodii deferred to Ellavere''s opinions on most things. She chose to nod. "I see. Please continue." Ellavere found her place and continued to read. "Nobody really knows for certain, how all Heroes receive the call. From where the term Levelling emerged, there is little agreement. There appear to be four directions though, in which a Levelling may occur. They are as follows:" At this point, Ellavere continued to read silently, her brows furrowing as she attempted to unravel the words. Mellodii began to squirm a bit impatiently, and finally said, "What? What are the directions?" Ellavere had turned to another section of the book, scanned its contents for a few moments, and then closed it quickly, putting it back into her pouch. "It''s all a bit complicated. We shall study it later. Right now, we have a problem. I think we have wandered into a Storied Meadow." The sisters sat and looked at each other, unsure what should happen next. Among the grasses and wildflowers and fluttering things about them, a light wind began to blow from the East, brining with it a new aroma - one neither had ever encountered before. They were still children. They were not yet ready. But their Fates disagreed. Somewhere not far off, a Crow clackered a curious signal, and quickly the word fanned out among its kin, and throughout the Realms: The House of Addlebright had been Storied at last. A new chapter in the Allegoriian Isles had just begun. B.B. Butterwell''s Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal The Rumour of the Huntsman and the Thief

The Rumour of the Huntsman and the Thief

[version 1.0] "Be careful what you choose to steal from my home" the gravelled voice came from the cabin''s only door, which the Thief had left open, thinking its occupant had left for the season. The occupant, a Huntsman of some long years, had returned early, having forgotten his favourite socks after travelling two full days into the Hedgewild. Valuing those socks greatly, he had come back all the way back, just for them. He stood now in the open doorframe of his small cabin, crossbow casually pointed at the space on the floor between he and the Thief, who had just managed to pick the lock on one of three trunks arranged against the wall below the cabin''s small, East-facing window. The Huntsman was a large fellow, with a great and greying beard down to his considerable stomach, and past it, to where his wide belt was, which was adorned with several knives of varying sizes, for varying purposes. His pack was placed just outside the door- his cloak already hung on the hook just inside. His wide-brimmed hat spanned nearly the width of the doorjamb. For effect, the sun by then was behind the Huntsman, making him something of a severe silhouette, blocking any escape. The Thief, by comparison, was a frail young man, scruffy from a hard life lived on the margins of cities and towns. His clothes were mostly threadbare, though he had managed to acquire a leather vest with some links of metal sewn in, from somewhere - enough to deflect the blow from a dull knife, maybe. His boots were mismatched. He had a cudgel, though it was leaning next to the Huntsman, by the door. The Thief, who had been caught kneeling by the chest, shot a glance at the cudgel, reflexively. "Not much use to you all the way over here, is it?" The Huntsman observed, inclining his head slightly to the club. With a deft move of his left foot, he flicked the cudgel from where it was leaning and into his hand, shifting the crossbow into his other, keeping it ready, but still politely down. "This club is cracked down the middle of the shaft", he added, "what sort of Thief are you? Fresh out of Thief College?" There was no such thing as Thief College. Not as far as the Thief had been able to locate, anyhow. He had asked around at first, until it became apparent that this wasn''t a bright move. "I''m not a Thief." "Oh, really? And what is it that you''re doing in my cabin, then?" The Thief wasn''t sure why he had bristled at being called a Thief. Nobody had ever called him that before, out loud, until just now. Up until that moment, he had wanted to be a Thief. Hadn''t he? That had been his life''s ambition - at least, for the past four or five years. Hadn''t it? "Take your time" the Huntsman offered, as he stepped into the cabin and pulled a chair over from the cabin''s small table. "Mind if I sit? I''ve been walking for two-thirds of the day. Not as spry as I once w-" The Thief lept to his feet and toward the door but the Huntsman was on him in a moment, and the scruffy young man was slammed to the floor and tied before his head had stopped spinning.
"Do you like soup?" The Huntsman pushed a bowl of broth across the table. The Thief was sitting on a barrel, one hand tied to the table''s leg by thick, course rope. The Huntsman had sat himself on the cabin''s chair, opposite. "All I have is soup. I hope you like soup. It''s cold, of course. Sorry." The Thief had long ago forgotten what it was like to care about the taste of food. Did he like soup? He had no idea. He was always hungry. He supposed he liked soup. It was an odd question to him now. The Huntsman had poured himself a bowl as well, from a flask he had had in his pack. The Huntsman had taken the cabin''s only spoon for himself. He took a big spoonful of soup for himself, to demonstrate that it was not poisoned. "It''s safe. Traveller''s Stew. Ever had that? It''s the spices that keep it from going bad. Can last a month in the right flask." He took another big spoonful, and motioned to the bowl in front of the Thief. "It''s fine. I''ve got plenty. It''s not a trick. I don''t do that sort of thing."If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The soup looked greyish green, with what looked like parsnips, carrots, and leaves thrown in. He could smell the spices the Huntsman had mentioned. An aroma that made his stomach growl. He was famished. He reached for the bowl with his free hand, but then winced, dropping his arm heavily on the table. "I think I cracked one of your ribs when I tackled you. I heard the pop. Sorry again. You''ve got no muscle on you at all. Not a very good Thief, I''d say." "I know you cracked my rib. I was there. And stop calling me that. I''m not a Thief" the young man slowly dragged the bowl toward him - the pain in his side was making his head swim. He wasn''t sure how he was going to lift the bowl. He might have to eat the soup like a dog. A dog tied to a barrel. With a cracked rib. What a miserable day of days. "Oh, well, ok. You were robbing me though, or did I get that wrong?" The Huntsman put the spoon aside and began drinking the soup from the bowl. The broth ran all down his great beard. It was like dining with a bear - a bear wearing a big hat. "I..." the Thief didn''t know what the point was of lying. "I was trying to find something I could sell." "Something of mine. That didn''t belong to you, you mean." The young man gave the Huntsman a angry glare, dipped his head gingerly down, and began slurping up the Traveller''s Stew, trying to ignore the pain in his rib. His pride had taken a few blows this season. "You''re having a low day, aren''t you, son?" The Huntsman put his bowl down and wiped his nose. "I can''t help you be a better Thief, except by catching you being bad at it, but-" "I''m not a Thief" "- but I can teach you how to track game, so you don''t have to starve while you''re figuring yourself out. I''m about to head into the Hedgewild. I could use a porter to carry my extras. The job''s yours, but I leave in the morning, so you have to decide quick." The young man wasn''t sure he heard right. "What - wait. What are you telling me?" The Huntsman pushed his bowl across to the Thief, along with the spoon, and got to his feet "I''m tired. I''ve walked a long way, and I think I pulled something in our tussle, so I need to lie down now. If you try to escape, I''ll hear you, tackle you again, probably injure one or both of us, and then I''ll bring you in to the town guard. They''ll put you in a stockade, or else ship you off to Owl. Maybe one, then the other. They''ll most likely be lenient on you. Probably." The Thief went a little bit pale. "I''m - I''m not a woodsman. I''ve never been into the Hedgewild. It''s dangerous there." "I have been there and back many times. You''ll learn how to navigate. I''ll even find you a better club." "You broke my ribs. I''m injured." "I broke one rib - two at most. You''ll live. We''ll walk slow. There''s a fungus that grows near a river two days from here, it speeds natural healing. Within the week you''ll be feeling almost as good as new." The Huntsman had closed and bolted the cabin''s door, taken off his boots, sat himself on the cabin''s only cot, and put on his favourite socks. "Good thing you hadn''t touched my socks - I probably just would have shot you on the spot." He rolled onto the cot, and put his back to the Thief. "I''m not a Thief", the Thief mumbled. "Not anymore, that''s true. You failed pretty hard at that. I don''t think you''re very good at it. Tomorrow, you''ll either be apprenticing as a Prisoner, or else a Huntsman. I suppose we''ll see, won''t we? Now let me sleep. And don''t think I won''t hear you if you try and escape, either, because I will, if you do." In fact, the Huntsman almost always slept like a log, so he most likely wouldn''t hear the Thief escape... but he was also pretty good at bluffing, by then. The young man (whose name was Nole Nethers, if you should like to know) took the spoon and ate both bowls of stew one-handed - and in silence, brooding. The Huntsman (whose name was Harnish O''Maguffin, if you can imagine), was snoring loudly within minutes. The lamplight began to fade, and Nole, being tied to the table and in no shape to lift it, decided to just put his head down next to the empty bowls and try to get some rest. He could fall sleep just about anywhere, in fact, in almost any conditon. He had had a lot of practice by then. Earlier that morning, Nole had thought that he was a Thief. He really had. By the time the next morning came, he would have to decide who he now wished to be - and for that matter, why. Now that he was no longer quite so hungry, for the first time in longer than he remembered, it felt like he had a real choice in the matter. B.B. Butterwell''s Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal The Rumour of the Writerly and Kindly Drakes

The Rumour of the Writerly & Kindly Drakes

[DRAFT version 1.1] Once upon a time (and in a cave, of course), on some lonesome shore of the Isle of False Monsters... Agatha the Kindly Drake had let herself in to the cave of her kin, Emerii the Writerly Drake, to see what it was Emerii had been writing today. Now that Drakes could no longer roam quite so freely, for fear of the Huntsmen, they were mostly left to visiting each other under cover of moonless nights and inclement weathers. Agatha though had taken a chance and ventured out on a sunny Autumn morning. She was tired of feeling so isolated, and needed some fresh air and sunlight. She found her cousin, unsurprisingly, at their small writing desk. This was in the brighter corner of the cave, which had a small hole in the wall, where the sun would occasionally peak through and illuminate the desk, so that Emerii could see the words now and then. The desk was, naturally, atop a small pile of treasure (since drakes do not use chairs, but treasure piles for sitting). "Hello, cousin" Emerii said, as Agatha wound her way in, and took up the visitor''s treasure pile near the cave entrance, which Emerii had amassed there for visitors of varying size. Emerii had not looked up as Agatha had come in, busy as they were with their latest masterpiece. "What news do you bring from the wide world without?" Agatha finished coiling comfortably upon the visitor''s hoard, and shook the autumn leaves from her wings. "I do not follow the news, as you know. The People are being People. I was visited by the Owls from the valley this morning. They say Hoo to you. What are you writing this morning?" Emerii dotted some punctuation at random into a run-on sentence, and placed their quill awkwardly into the tiny ink pot set into the desk. This took a few moments - Emerii''s talons intended for rending and not writing things - but People (who were Emerii''s target audience) preferred scrolls and letters of a reasonable Person-size, and so Emerii had done their best to write small. After a few failed attempts at putting back their quill, they finally managed to get it into the pot. "How nice of the Owls. Please tell them Hoo Hoo for me, when you see them next". Emerii snaked their long neck about, searching for where the next blank parchment had gone. Sometimes Emerii''s wings would slow-flap on their own accord, sending sheaves everywhere while they wrote. Agatha pointed a talon at where Emerii''s errant parchment had ended up - squarely upon the helmet of some long-dead knight (still clutching an enchanted axe in its bony hands). Agatha sometimes wondered if the man''s family still expected him home one day. Emerii carefully plucked the parchment from the man''s helm and brought it to the small desk, carefully flattening it. "Thank you, I lose these all the time. I should pillage a drawer from the nearby village... something to keep my papers in." "Oh now, Emerii", said Agatha, "we must be careful these days. It is no longer wise to venture so close to the People''s places. They are unusually agitated and apt to do something entirely too rash. Even for them". She was not at all wrong. Emerii took care as they picked the quill out of the pot, and got to work on the next page. "I am writing an epic. Or perhaps it is a saga - I am still unsure what makes a fanciful or protracted untruth either one or the other." "Perhaps it is both" Agatha said, wiggling her great bulk about to make herself comfortable upon the sitting hoard. A silver crown from some ancient king bent beneath her left haunch. The royal head upon which the thing had once rested had been already un-bodied years before, by some angry mob (angry about injustice, in that case, in case you were wondering). "Dear dear, I bent this nice hat" Agatha apologized, almost to herself. Emerii did not mind if their treasure became bent or broken - this mostly made it more comfortable to sit upon. A good sitting hoard took many years to make right. Emerii had been working on their hoard - which they divided into smaller sitting piles - for a good many years now, and was proud of how inviting the cave had become for visiting. It was mostly Agatha who visited Emerii these days, though. She was of course correct - it had become entirely unsafe to go outside, most days.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The next sentence was causing Emerii some trouble, and they flicked their long tongue about while thinking. "Perhaps it is both" offered Agatha. "What, both fanciful and protracted? "No - well, yes. It is both of those things, I am certain. I meant, perhaps it is both an epic and a saga." Agatha had decided to try on the bent crown, and pretend to be a monarch. It would not stay on her head though, which was shaped like a drake''s, after all, and not well-suited for hats. Emerii stopped writing, and looked up with concern. "Wait, how do know that my story is both fanciful and protracted? I have not read it to you yet. In fact, it''s not even one-seventh written, if even that." Agatha shook her head (though kindly, since she was a Kindly Drake). "Emerii, my dear cousin, everything you have ever penned is both protracted and naught but full of fancy. That is your style and also your nature... and so I am only making an informed guess that this current project of yours will be more of both of those things." "Oh, I see." "I don''t mean to be mean-sounding. That is not my intention, or my nature. For one, I rather enjoy an excessively long tale, containing many unbelievable events and myriads of characters, all intertwined -" "Well, I am pleased to hear that -" "- though I also meant to add that I might be... in the minority of sorts, as a reader these days, in those regards." "Oh. I See." Emerii repeated, endeavouring again to put the quill back into the pot. Agatha must have come to say something they needed to properly hear. Emerii folded their great paws together upon the desk (completely covering it), and began again to listen, but better. Agatha breathed out a few loops of smoke, before proceeding. She did not want to hurt any feelings. She loathed hurting things like feelings. "It''s just the times, my friend. They are full of change and uncertainty now... and People - who are your intended readership, if I am to understand - are entirely unclear what our future holds for them, and so have less time and interest in leisurely pursuits (such as epic sagas) than they perhaps once had." Emerii was not clear on where Agatha was going quite yet. Agatha continued, "Even the nobility and the wandering-and-armed-ne''er-do-wells - who have traditionally had the most time to spare for leisurely pursuits such as reading and warfare - are finding themselves, these days, much too pressed for time. They are in a fight for survival, as a species. They barely have a moment to rest these days, what with all the flooding and monster encroachments. Much less, time for reading lengthy novels which are meant to describe - well-meant though they may be - how they got themselves into their current predicaments." Emerii''s wings fluttered, a bit indignantly. "Why bring up warfare? I am writing a historical epic or saga, not writing a war novel." "But your book has a war in it as well, among all those other things, does it not? There is always a war going on in the backdrops of your stories." Emerii did not immediately answer. "Again, you have not read it yet." "Because it is unfinished... I know." Agatha stopped trying to get the bent crown to stay on her head, and put it back on the pile, where it rolled itself into a cranny between an iron pot and an old, singed boot. Emerii became lost in thought for a time, looking at their little desk, and then at the scattered parchments arrayed all about them, and then everywhere in the cave - at the great heaps of ideas and and opinions woven into tall tales of woe and sacrifice and heroism and villainy and indifference... and every one entirely uncompleted and going nowhere, except on and on. But to what end? Emerii thought this out loud, not intending to. Agatha always knew what Emerii meant to think, and shook her head again, sadly. "I do not know why People need to create such catastrophes in order to learn their best lessons. That is just their nature, I suppose. I suppose it makes them more interesting to be around." B.B. Butterwell''s Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal Being Bad Brigands

Being Bad Brigands, Part VI

[version 1.0] We join our four intrepid heroes at a confusingly inappropriate middle-point of one of several sub-arcs which collectively comprise the more complete arc of their shared history as adventuring companions. The scene takes place among some ancient trees, which closely line either side of the King''s Road here1, which is somewhere between the town of Lower Crafterston and a nameless bridge, nonetheless nicknamed by the locals of that region Rickety Splinters . It is afternoon, and there is some dappled sunlight from one sun or another finding its way through the thick and deep leafage overhead, casting wavering, bright-to-fading pools of light upon the road and the grasses and shrubbery about, and on the mossy pelts of the old Lilithwoods and upon the grey, stern barks of the older Ironoaks, and also across the forms and faces of our hale heroes, who are: Quidbury Fallweather Cotterpin, a lanky young man in a trim-fitting vest, quite-functional pantaloons, and decent shoes. A great brown-red crop of hair atop his head vies for our attention with his substantial (though not unbecoming) nose. He is easily identifiable by many as an entirely workable male lead, given his conflicted characteristics: awkward, bright, optimistic, naive, not much of a fighter, though something about him makes one wonder when his True Strength will emerge and change our opinions of him - and therefore also ourselves. The Reader, I am sure, understands. Quidbury is standing close to: Wimsel (no known last name, being a somewhat mysterious character by this point still), a waifish-looking woman, whom Quidbury has already fallen in love with several chapters ago, and who is not yet quite aware of what to make of that. She is in a serviceable adventuring frock, mostly greens and blues, with little specks of yellow, for flair. Her hair is dark, though salted with the early signs of her emerging, inherent wisdom. She is listening with grave interest to the Plan, which is being delivered by: Brom the Mercenary (not strictly a last name, and he is in fact a Bounty Hunter), who is, as his name and monikers might suggest, a large and chiseled-jawed fellow, and the group''s substantially capable veteran of battles and other perilous undertakings. He is (as he almost-always is) wearing thick-though-weather-worn leather armour, which is pleated for moving easily about and among the Hedgewilds, which is where he grew up and learned how to rely on nobody but himself. He is kneeling among the companions at the moment, drawing the Plan in the dirt. Brom is wondering where that smell just came from, and looks up to glare disapprovingly at: Thorr the Impeccable Burro, busy eating wild grasses, which is his preference whenever afforded an opportunity to stop and have a rest. Thorr is of average disposition for a burro, keeping his opinions to himself, not being one of those animals one hears of from time to time, which can speak the Common tongue. He is currently piled high with all of the group''s heavier things, and, for intimidating effect, dressed in black burlap, which is haphazardly studded with links from an old chain. He wishes he spoke Common long enough to make a joke about looking like a bad-ass. He would settle for somebody else in the group making the joke for him, but since nobody has thought of it, he decides to drop the joke and go back to grazing. "Move it over there, you gassy beast, I can hardly think" says Brom to Thorr, who pretends not to hear him, and continues chewing. "Will I get to wear a mask?" Asks Quidbury, for at least the third time that day. "Yes," answers Brom, trying to pretend he hasn''t answered the question four times already, "A mask is an excellent idea, when one plans to do crimes against the Crown. It is more difficult for any surviving witnesses to assist the wanted-poster artist in capturing them correctly, afterward." Brom is trying to set the stones on the ground to indicate where the party should all stand during the robbery. The acorn in the midst of them is the mark - the line drawn in the dirt with his hunting knife, the road. All the stones, save the large one representing Brom, are quite removed from the action - back near his boot, in fact. Brom''s stone is nearly on top of the acorn. The diorama effectively conveys what peril the acorn has gotten itself into, by choosing to wander the way it did. Quidbury practically claps, "Oh, very exciting! We shall be those new kind of highwaymen which avoid hurting people more than strictly necessary!" "Well, yes, ok" Brom is trying to find an even larger stone to represent himself, and an acorn which looks more injured, once tipped on its side.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Wimsel helpfully adds, "and save half our earnings to give to the poor." "What, half?" Brom looks up again to protest, but it is clear by the knowing nods Wimsel and Quidbury are giving each other that he has been outvoted again. He is already reconsidering the viability of this, his latest plan. Wimsel wishes to look properly dangerous, of course, but is (natrually) opposed to using weapons of any kind. In fact, she claims to have a rare condition which prevents her from even carrying weapons properly, which is something Brom has never heard of. The group has agreed that her role is to hold a rope and scowl, when given the cue. Although she has been practicing this quite a bit, she has so far only managed to do either one or else the other of these things at a given time, but not yet both together. Quidbury had been a bit too eager to carry a weapon, and so Brom has given him a stick and told him it is a small enchanted staff, which Brom found in the Dungeon of Golrath, which is neither a dungeon nor a real place of any kind. Quidbury asked if he might at least sharpen it, but Brom and he eventually agreed that this would disrupt its magical properties. When Quidbury asked what those properties were, Brom merely put his thick finger to his lips, and winked. Quidbury did not understand, but acted as though he had. Thorr is content with fulfilling whichever role the group deems him suited for, provided it involves standing around or carrying things, and correctly assumes his role will involve one or both of these things, while the People commit the crime or whatever. He has his doubts they will succeed at whatever thing they are about to try, though is aware he might soon need to carry additional things or people, regardless of whether they succeed or not, and so has prepared himself mentally for this. Brom stands up, pointing to the Plan, all quite plainly laid out in stones and acorns in the dirt. "There we are. This is what we''ll do, then. The merchant will walk by, right about there" Brom pointed to the acorn, "the two of you will stand over there -" "That''s when I hold the rope and scowl?" Wimsel cuts in, helpfully. "-yes, you do your scowling and rope-holding over there" Brom points to the stone which is meant to be Wimsel, which is quite far from the acorn actually, next to the Quidbury stone, " and Cotterpin will cover you with the Enchanted Staff -" "The Enchanted Staff of....?" Quidbury prompts again, but Brom merely holds up a hand to silence him, continuing, "- and the burro will wait for us to load it down with treasure once we''re done." "Him" Corrects Quid. "What?" "His name is Thorr, and he goes by ''Him''", Quid has mentioned this before and thinks the mercenary might have a hearing or memory impairment, perhaps. Brom looks between Quid and the Burro and back again. "Are you sure? I mean, I''ve not hear it - him - speak at all, so... where did you learn its name, exactly?" Quidbury had given Thorr his name, of course, when he bought the burro. He isn''t sure what Brom is getting at. Wimsel points to the road. "There''s somebody coming. Should we rob them?" Brom springs into action, waving them both aggressively toward the bushes, and hissing instructions, "Quick, get into your places, and do not do anything until I signal you. Get the burrow behind that tree. Stay out of sight." Wimsel and Quid lead Thorr into the thick scrub, Quidbury fretting that he''s not had time to make a mask yet. Wimsel recommends they improvise something, and begins rummaging through the saddlebags. Unlike some burros, Thor is amicable enough when told where to stand, most days - as long as there are grasses there, he really doesn''t need much else. So he stands still while the two rummage, not quite behind the tree he suspects they meant to lead him fully behind. The grasses here are particularly tasty, though. All is well. Brom is already up a tree on the other side of the road. Situated upon a thick branch, he looks around the hefty trunk and through the leaf coverage at the approaching man. Following this man are seven more. All eight are quite heavily armed. Brom''s companions, he notices, are not nearly as hidden as they need to be. They seem to be putting a bag over Cotterpin''s head. The Ass''s ass-end is not remotely hidden behind anything. Brom is beginning to think the bounty upon Wimsel''s head is not nearly high enough to make any of this journey worth his while - or, for that matter, his life. B.B. Butterwell''s Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal

Footnotes

  1. The King''s Road is everywhere in the Isles - practically every road of a certain quality of upkeep (not too rutted, but rutted enough to keep the Wheelsman Guild busy in every town of medium size or greater) is called the King''s. ?
Letter From Afield
51o04/05 Dagnett, my friend, I trust you are still alive and functional - somewhere in the Dungeons no doubt - and that they are feeding you well and allowing for your occasional need of sunlight. Even Booknards need to breathe fresh air and see the Sun, from time to time. I missed my last deadline, as you may have heard. I am unsure how much it might matter at this late stage, though one never knows. I have been busy scouring my accumulating notes, which at times seem ready to drown me with their depth and breath, like an ocean which began as a pattering of rain upon my imagination, and is now a deluge of tangled thought. I have been at sea. Throughout all of these trials - which have been considerable, though fortunately bearable - you, my friend, have been a constant and hopeful presence at a remove; you are one reason I have continued to venture into this unknown with courage I had not expected to find, toward my known conclusion. At times, you have been the only reason - but one needs only a single one of those, at times. I am looking forward to visiting you in the Archives again, when I am finally done this interminable task, so that we might have a sit beneath a tree and talk again about where we both think these Worlds of ours are going. I have warmed somewhat to matters of idle philosophy as my own Autumn years have softened my disposition and, as you call it, my canterkerii. During this mission, I have encountered so many spirits, both bright and dark - and a great many more hovering somewhere between these, in the grey areas of the soul - and have spent such a fortune on ink and parchment in my efforts to faithfully contain them, to the point of requiring the acquisition of additional work, just to keep myself gainfully employed. This has split my attentions, and left me wondering now and then what my true and final contributions are meant to be. But no more of that. I am submitting my final report to the Magistrate on the morrow, which should arrive in Owl by Crow next Moonsday at the latest (barring Dire Eagles, obviously), and then I will be submitting my resignation soon after, in person if circumstances permit. I wanted you to know first. You might find this decision surprising - for that, I apologize, it cannot be helped. Although tomorrow is merely my 3-Count Day, I have decided to take an early retirement, while I am still able to enjoy it for a handful of seasons. I hear this is a trend among the younger folk in these times, and although I am no longer so young, I sympathize with some of their saner sensibilities. I hope in fact to convince you to consider joining me in this, my next adventure - though I know you have always taken your own Life''s Work to heart, and the size of your heart will make the wresting of your work from it a challenge. I believe I am now equal to that challenge. But more on that when I arrive home - I have much to recount of my travels. Perhaps some of the recounting can be done on muleback, as we travel the Realms as friends, broken free for a short time from the chains of our compelled commitments to curiosity, conquest, and commerce. I am still a flagrant fan of the alliterative. Some things change less than others. Following is a brief report of my present situation, since I know you will be wondering how the Accounting has been progressing. You are no doubt reserving a good spot in the Middle-some Levels for it - on a choice shelf at roughly eye-level, I hope - to be permanently housed so that perhaps it might be found and read again, now and then. It will be roughly one scroll in volume - about an Arms{e} length; I shall explain when I return. Do not exert too many frets or favours on this, though - I appreciate your friendship - it does not need to come with additional works and pulled strings. It on its own has always been more than sufficient. I have been camped at the edge of a vast plain for the past three evenings, along with an assembly of knights of the Elder Order. With me at my tent are my traveling companions, Mihs. O''Hollows, the Grand P. Allanwarde, and the young Master Harlo. I cannot name the plain we have traveled to, as it is at the moment the scene of an impending military action of potentially great historical import. It is evening as I write this, and the Tear is in full flame above, and so the plain is alit and cannot be crossed without a risk of alerting the Foe. Aside from this, our company is joined by others from the surrounding Realms. Each hour of each day, more arrive - additional Orders, mixed assemblies of soldiers, more than a few mercenaries (there are always those, though under whose employ one never knows), and even a great volunteer contingent assembled from the most nearby villages. It is no small thing which is being attempted here, but again, I cannot say more, lest I endanger the cause. I have been transporting a treasure of sorts, something I had the fortune (whether good or bad I have yet to determine) of coming into possession of, some weeks ago. I intend to submit it for consideration of the Archive upon my return. I believe it to be of a powerfully Fey nature, or else perhaps some Hermetic artifact of the Third Age. I have encountered nothing like it before, in my travels. It is a trunk of tightly fitted IronedOak, hefty, sealed in Elderbee wax, banded in steel, and marked by obscure glyphs about its edges. There is a latch, but it came with no loop for a padlock, and so I am to assume it was not built to secure its contents from theft, but only protect them from the elements. I will for now forgo the details of how I came by this item, as that is a tale unto itself. Several, in fact. That is what I have come to realize, now that I have been blessed or cursed to carry it about (I have acquired a strong and patient burro for this purpose, in case you are curious how I have managed to carry it with me): Every tale is in fact more of those - and this is a recursion. The trunk is pressed full with parchments, of a variety of kinds, conditions, and ages - as though the collection has been in the works for lifetimes. When I first opened the trunk, the impression I had was that a great volume of tomes had exploded, and then been hastily stuffed back, with no time or concern for the order of anything. There seemed to be nothing else in the trunk, save for papers, sheaves, scrolls - sometimes more-or-less intact, sometimes fragments only, and not two pieces bound together in any sensible collection or order. I was left with the thought that perhaps the collector - for it was clearly not one author who had produced all of the material - had been compelled to flee from some sudden danger, and had yet taken the time to tear out selected sections of various books to take with them, rather than taking the volumes themselves. A curiously time-consuming thing to do, if one were also in a hurry. All of this occurred to me before I had even began to peruse the contents themselves. I might sum it up, so far, as this: I have inherited what appears to be a trunk of observations, opinions, conjectures, and rumours. Many of the items contain lore of the Realms. Some of this lore accords well with that which I have already acquired and even verified, some of it is entirely unknown to me, or even in stark opposition to that which I had believed I already knew. There are a great many narratives as well - at first, many appear simply as works of pure fiction, but then some detail or another, which is commonly known, grants them an unusual air of truth. The opinions and conjectures intermingled in great quantity between the fact and the fancy are, as well, presented to effect - either to convince, or else to incite a counter-argument, but not to be wholly dismissed. As I began to dig into this curious trove, I naturally began to seek some patterns - some clue as to what the collection''s binding principle might be - but so far, I have only managed to overwhelm my mind to the point of requiring frequent breaks. There is no seeming method to the myriad of words, yet they all seem oddly compelling, and I find myself straining to understand, while at the same time, trying to tear myself away.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Already, I feel I have been oddly edified by the experience, but I do not know yet at what cost. I am not intending to speak in riddles - this is simply the effect which the Trunk (I have taken to capitalizing it, to differentiate it from others of similar form but different nature) has had on me at present. I am wholly unclear how many days it will take me to catalog its contents - they seem to go on forever, although as we both know, that is impossible. I might have gone on too long already. I know you are a patient sort, and no doubt have things in need of attending to. I am being called to the campfire to attend to a thing myself - Master Harlo has asked me to recount some details of a recent adventure for guests which have arrived from the nearby tents. He is well aware of the details but says that he prefers the way I tell the story. I am still unaccustomed to being in the firelight, having spend so many years mastering the business of doing exactly the opposite of that. Old dogs, new tricks, as the they say - or something. I will say farewell for now, my friend, until we next meet. Although by the time you have received this, the coming storm might already have raged. Wish us good fortune nonetheless, if you may. Your friend, Bardlii
Dagnett Booknard, dressed in the monk-like garb of his guild1, presses the palm of his thick hand against the parchment in front of him, and smiles faintly to himself, marvelling at how far Master Noonstar had come, since they first met, those long years ago. He rolls the letter with care back into its case, and stops the end, putting it to one side. The silence here is cool and calming. Dagnett breathes out a slow, steady breath. This reading chamber, one of his favourites when he wishes to be at peace with his thoughts, is dim, save for the lone lamp on the desk, two candles on a narrow shelf near the door, and torchlight from somewhere down the corridor, beyond the open door. At the edges of the faint firelight, shelves full of books in reserve lean in all about him, cradled closely by the chamber''s hewn stone walls and low domed ceiling, surrounded by the burying bulk of the ancient mountain, and roosted upon by the great and sprawling Old City of Owl... itself surrounded now as it is by the new Seas lapping at its outermost walls. The great weight of Everything, both immutable and in dizzying flux, does not badger one to bear it here - though it can still be surely and sorely felt, no matter the levels to which Dagnett might descend to escape it. For him, the phobia of things pressing down is most strongly felt outside. In the Archives, all things above are kept at bay - and most things below, in alphabetical order. His current shift is on its third fortnight. Soon, he will be required to visit the surface for a minimum of five days, as is the cautionary custom of his guild. Left to his own d''rathers, he would just as soon remain in the depths forever. The Gnomes are able to do this, and no-one asks anything more of them. Alas, Dagnett is no Gnome. He does not relish the thought of being separated from his work and all that he knows, while imprisoned above in the open air. There is so much work awaiting him. The Summoning notes of Stilldrake Pheasantkin, housed in the Seaward wings of the eighth level, have been in dire need of a severe re-catalogue, having being rifled through by some wizard or another, no doubt on a quest for vague answers to inscrutable secrets; there is a plastering effort in one the upper floors which Dagnett has heard is seeking volunteers; there is the business of the rats, which have been raiding the pantries, again. The rats were often raiding the pantries. They had multiplied tenfold in recent years, some having grown concernedly bold, the longer they were permitted to wander the tunnels. A Booknards was always busy with one thing or another. And though there was always much to do, mortal men still needed sleep - and yes, fresh air from time to time too, it was true. If only Dagnett were a golem. Alas, he was not one of those either. He sighs again, before becoming annoyed at his own self-pity. Standing, Dagnett takes the scroll case and lamp, extinguishes the small candles by the entrance, and leaves the chamber, closing its stout door shut behind him. The corridor is low-ceilinged and rough hewn, like the chamber he has left. He travels down it, passing numerous side corridors and other chamber entrances as he goes, moving between pools of near darkness and flickering torchlight. The Archives are a maze of these kinds of rooms and passageways - at-times confounding knotworks of stairwells of every shape and pitch, sloped corridors and alcoves, all along dotted with sconces kept alight by archivists of the lowest orders, two of whom nod in deference to Dagnett as he passes. Down another corridor Dagnett turns, then comes to a firm iron gate blocking the way. He is allowed through by a Guarding Gnome wearing a thick mail coat, too-large helm, and bored expression. It takes its time finding the right key for the gate''s lock, from the ring bearing dozens hanging from its belt. Dagnett casts a look at the creature''s knotty club, leaned against the wall near a small chair and table where a game of solitaire waits, interrupted. ''Have the rats been behaving?'' he asks, never sure what to say to the Gnome, whose job is unremarkably plain, and whose name he can never recall. The Gnome meets his eye briefly, but does not respond, and does not smile. It has never seemed to like Dagnett. Dagnett has never been able to understand why. Once through the gate, he continues onward, and the hallway plunges down a steep flight of steps. He ducks so as not to scrape his head upon the ceiling as he descends. It is entirely dark here, except for more torchlight from below. At the bottom of the staircase, he stands tall again. A small junction has been hollowed out here, with a simple domed ceiling, and lit by a pair of sconces. On the wall between them, the Letters M and N are carved. The corridor splits into three additional directions. Dagnett follows the largest, and it soon grows taller and wider still, joined by other passages arriving from other directions, like tributaries. The hallway is unadorned, though Dagnett knows it once housed many tapestries from a dynasty now long dead. Where these were moved and why, he was never informed. The corridor ends at last at a heavy door, banded in iron, narrow and tall. It bears a bronzed plate, etched with the name: Noonstar, B. It swings open easily when he pushes on it. The chamber beyond is of a considerable size. thirty-seven shelves run the chamber''s length and stretch to the room''s ceiling, a dozen arms or more above. Lamplights at either end suggest the chamber''s general dimension, though its contents, the rows upon rows of books and scrolls lay largely in shadow. Dagnett takes a wimlight lamp from the small desk near the door, and signs his name into the ledger there. Down a long aisle, Dagnett finds a section marked Letters from Afield, B.N., where he stops. The shelves here are like wine racks: hundreds of semi-circular holders for scrolls, of which there are nearly nine-thousand, now. Dagnett alone knows the precise number - it is not officially tallied in any record. In front of him, at eye-level, is the spot for this particular letter. The holder is marked, 3-Count Day, and is the last of those - there are none marked either two, or one. He presses the case to his forehead gently, closing his eyes for a moment, and then slides it carefully back into its place, so that it might be found and read again, now and then. The Compendium Allegoriian by B.B. Butterwell is marked with CC0 1.0 Universal

Footnotes

  1. the Booknards being an ages-old clan of persons of faith - the faith being the ceaseless curation of the Mortal Word, as it strives to accord at last with that of the Divine. ?