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694 lines
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+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FOUR NUMBER ONE
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+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
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| ++ | F S F NN N E T
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| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
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| | F S F N NN E T
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|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
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/___________\ ==========================================
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
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___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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CONTENTS
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X-Editorial Orny
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Welcome to Dargon! Orny
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Simon's Song Orny
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Rendezvous Joseph Curwen
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Exile Eric
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Date: 020786 Dist: 112
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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X-Editorial
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Well, folks, here it is: the First Anniversary Issue of FSFNet,
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and the first issue containing stories of the Dargon writing
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project. I must say, this is an impressive issue, and I hope you all
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enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed putting it together. The Dargon
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project is a group of FSFNet contributors who have gotten together
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to write about a single location, much like Aspirin's Thieves' World
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project. And, as you can see, the results are phenomenal! Any people
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who are interested in joining the project and feel they will be
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productive, feel free to mail me. I'd also like to welcome the new
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readers who responded to the notice I sent out. I'm not sure whether
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to apologize or not for the extreme length of this issue, but I'm
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sure you won't mind once you start reading...
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But, for now, I suggest you sit back and enjoy some of the best
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amateur writing you will find on BITNET. Thank you all for your
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support. Blessed be.
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-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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Welcome to Dargon!
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Dargon is a small, out of the way fiefdom of the Kingdom of
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Baranur, situated in the extreme northwest corner of the kingdom. It
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is separated from the rest of the kingdom by a vast wood and a minor
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range of hills, and is ruled by the young Lord Clifton Dargon.
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Dargon Keep, where the wealthy merchants and courtesans live, lies
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on a hill overlooking the town and port of Dargon, which lie at the
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mouth of the River Coldwell. The port is Dargon's only link to the
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more populated south, and the town is an active and busy place. In
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the fields of Dargon can be found many small farming peasant
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villages, that pay tithes to the Keep. Quaint and pittoresque, these
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villages lie on the very borders of civilization, and can be hotbeds
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of superstition as well as gateways to adventure.
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Come follow, whether your pleasure be politics and court
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intrigue, the devilish workings of a medieval port-town, or the
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horror and adventure of the hinterlands. Come follow the tales of
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wonder and woe that unfold before you, in Dargon.
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-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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Simon's Song
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Dale ran breathlessly down the Street of Travellers towards the
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docks. His father had told him to read two whole lessons; being the
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son of a scribe wasn't the most exciting life in the world. His
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father, a well-known teacher and scribe named Cavendish, made his
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living by hiring out to teach youngsters how to read and write. He
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had left the fourteen year-old in the family library while he went
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to Dargon Keep to instruct some poor aristocrat's son. Dale knew his
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father had meant well, but there were other things to do all
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afternoon than read some old dry book. Besides, he'd be back in time
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to read most of his assignment, anyways.
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He turned the corner by Sandmond's, nearly capsizing an emerging
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sailor (listing five degrees to port), and scanned the dockside for
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the familiar red and white canopy. Finding it, he plunged back into
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the crowd and made for a warehouse at the far end of the quays. He
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pushed through the mob of sailors, soldiers, and merchants, finally
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coming within sight of his destination, a squeaky old cart,
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overloaded with three steaming kettles, attended by a tall, smiling
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man and his little monkey. A sign on the cart read 'Salamagundi
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Stew' in large letters.
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The youth slowed and yelled across the crowd, "Hey, Simon!" The
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tall man saw Dale and waved him over.
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"Hey, Dale! What you doing out so early? Did you Papa give you
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too much to read, eh?" The tall sailor smiled broadly and batted the
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young man on the shoulder.
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"Yeah," sighed the lad. "How's Skeebo?" he asked, bringing a
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sweetmeat forth from his cloak to offer the monk.
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"Oh, he's fine. Business is good, and look at the port! It's so
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busy!" He spread his arms to take in all the port area. Dale looked
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up after giving Skeebo his treat and surveyed the port. The crowds
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were thicker than ever, and there were several tall ships and
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galleys tied up along the docks. He knew the Angelique at the far
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end, and Captain Smith's Victory Chimes beside it. Right in front of
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the warehouse was a galley that Dale had never seen before, with a
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great deal of bustle on deck and a number of strange papery
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ornaments hanging in the rigging. "What ship is that? Is it from the
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south?"
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"Ah..." began Simon, a glint in his brown eyes. "I checked 'er
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out before. She's called the Singing Mermaid, and she's been on a
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long, long voyage. She left Baranur, down south... must've been
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nearly two years ago. Headed west, of all places!" Simon was aglow
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with the rapture of a bard revealing a tale. "They say this is
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their first landfall since they left a place called Bichu, across
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the western ocean. They say they've got some sort of western noble
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who paid them well to bring him here. Wonder what would make a man
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pay such a high price to leave his home, eh, lad?"
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While Dale listened, he dipped himself a bowl of 'regular', as
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Simon called the first of the three varieties of stew he sold. Dale
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had often listened to Simon's tale of how he had learned the recipe for
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Salamagundi Stew while he was serving as a cook on a galley many
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years ago. The stew itself was a sort of fish chowder, heavily
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seasoned, and the 'regular' was fairly good. Dale had never tried
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either of the other stews - Simon had always steered him away from
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them with a laugh.
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The young man looked up and contemplated the Singing Mermaid.
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There were a number of large crates sitting on deck, and many
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strangely-colored paper ornaments hanging from the yardarm. The
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captain came from below deck and stood talking with a
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strangely-dressed man who could not have been any taller than Dale
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himself. He nudged Simon and nodded towards the ship. Simon's eyes
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widened. "Yep. Must be that westerner... Let's go get a good look,
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eh, lad?" With that Simon slowly hauled his cart closer to the pier
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where the Singing Mermaid was tied up. Dale watched the foreigner
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order another man to gather some chests and boxes and make his way
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down the gangplank, the poor servant, overburdened with the
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foreigner's gear, close behind.
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The stranger was a young man, though perhaps five or more years
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older than Dale, but no more than an inch or two taller than the
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scribe's son. His clothing was strangely decorated in blue and white
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shapes that Dale had to think twice about to understand, and his
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robe hung about his body very oddly. Dale could see that he had a
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slight limp, and carried a very strange and wicked-looking sword in,
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of all things, a wooden sheath! Dale saw the stranger stop for a
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moment and look around, a dark expression on his face, and turn
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towards Simon. The youth hurried to catch up.
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Simon set his cart down and waited for the stranger to approach,
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carefully inspecting and gently stirring each of the three chowders
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he had made that morning. He had been lucky to get some spices from
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the Singing Mermaid's haul earlier in the day, and he was confident
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it was an excellent batch. The foreigner walked directly to him and
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slowly, haltingly said, "Excuse, prease... You offer to sell food?"
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Simon nodded and replied "Yes - stew! Three kinds: regular,
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sweet, and sun-sweet. It's very good," he added, lifting the cover
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from one of the pots to let the foreigner know just what he was
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about to purchase. Simon certainly knew enough not to upset
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travelling nobility.
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"Ah, very good. I would like the sun-sweet prease..."
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Simon nodded and carefully suppressed a chuckle. Sun-sweet was
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the spiciest of the brews, and he knew of only two people who had
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ever been able to finish a whole bowl: himself and Guiseppi, the old
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sailor-cook who had taught Simon how to cook, when he was younger
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than Dale. He smiled to the stern-faced stranger, dipped a steaming
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bowl of regular, and offered it to the stranger. No sense making a
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scene, Simon thought. He had travelled enough in the west to realize
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that he might have just saved his own life!
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The man took the broth with a short bow, if no smile, and
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reached within his silken clothing, producing two short sticks with
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which he began to eat the chunks of fish from the broth. Simon was
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about to congratulate himself on his tact when he saw Skeebo grab a
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spoon from the cart and thrust it at the stranger, who slowly lifted
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his eyes towards the monk, to Dale, and finally to Simon. Simon felt
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his stomach knot in worry. Suddenly, the strangely-clad foreigner
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broke out into the oddest laughter Dale had ever witnessed. The
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stranger took the spoon and gave the monk a small coin in return. He
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finished the chunks of fish and began noisily sipping the broth with
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the spoon. Simon knew that the man had probably never used a spoon
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before setting foot on the Singing Mermaid, though how anyone could
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go through life without using a spoon was quite beyond him.
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Skeebo went back to Simon, looking sheepish as any monkey could.
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The sailor took the coin from the monk, and an odd look came over
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his face. The westerner had paid in gold! It was a strange looking
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coin, but it was probably worth more than Simon had made all year.
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He was obviously a noble, but he didn't seem quite that rich...
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The stranger had finished his bowl, and seeing Simon's
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puzzlement in his face, he asked "The coin... is it not enough?"
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Simon, more confused than ever, could not speak for a moment.
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"It is more than too much!" he suddenly stammered, too astounded to
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even care that he could live off that small coin for nearly a year.
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He held the coin out to give it back to the foreigner, who closed
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the sailor's hand upon it.
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"I am Ittosai Michiya," he began. "I have left my home in
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dishonor, and am far from where I would be. I have not been happy in
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many months. Take the coin - is a smile not worth so much stone?"
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With that, he bowed low and, with a gesture for his baggage,
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left Simon and Dale both rather puzzled.
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Simon soon was busy with customers again, and Dale wandered off to
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look at the ships, including the Singing Mermaid.
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Simon had given up. The port was just too busy, and he couldn't
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keep up with the customers. His mind kept dwelling on the strange
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foreigner, and he found himself looking at the small golden coin,
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somtimes touching it like a worry stone. It was an interesting coin;
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on one side, an etching of a strangely shaped building surrounded by
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an even odder-looking garden, on the other side were strange letters
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that looked like chicken-scratchings. Perhaps he would get it
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changed and pay rent. Perhaps he would buy Dale something useful and
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give it to him during the upcoming festival. Then again, maybe he'd
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just tuck it away in case he might ever need it; it was a very
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attractive coin...
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Simon's twenty-fifth contemplation of the strange coin was
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interrupted by a familiar cry. "Hey, Simon!"
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"Hey, Dale!" After going off to look at the ships, the youth had
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wandered up along the coastline. Dale came over to Simon's cart and
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chittered at Skeebo as only a child would. "Guess what, Simon?"
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"There's a world outside Dargon?" Simon smiled.
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"No, silly," responded Dale, "I've found something while I was
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walking up the coast."
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"The ocean?" Simon asked, still sarcastically smirking.
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In answer, Dale brought forth a small bundle from his tunic. He
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had wrapped something in a wool cloth, and he unwrapped it very
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carefully to reveal what looked like a carving that had been covered
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with sand and seaweed.
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"What is it?" Simon was curious.
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Dale carefully picked the seaweed away and, with a handful of
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water from a nearby rain barrel, washed off the stone carefully.
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What was revealed was a small sculpture of Dargon Keep, crudely
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done, but made in ivory, the unmistakeable three towers rising above
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a walled section of town. Simon's eyes widened, then seemed very
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far. Then he came back, smiled at Dale, and said, "What a find, lad!
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I'd hang onto that, if I were you."
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"Yeah. I'm going to keep it in my room. I think it's really neat!"
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"It sure enough is that, lad. Now you run home and do your
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reading. We've had plenty of adventure for this day, eh?"
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"Yeah!" Dale said as he carefully wrapped the miniature keep in
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the cloth. "Well, see you tomorrow, Simon!" He turned and jogged
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away, innocent of the expression on his older friend's visage.
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Simon Salamagundi felt old, perhaps for the first time in his
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young life. Seventeen years earlier, he remembered, his mother had
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apprenticed him to a sculptor, thinking Simon had artistic hands.
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His father, Seth Salamagundi, had been a sailor, and Simon's blood
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came from his father's line. One afternoon, he had sat by the ocean,
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trying desperately to live up to others expectations of him, carving
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a small ivory model of Dargon Keep. It had looked so horrible that
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he hurled it as far into the sea as he could throw it. He ran home,
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wrote a note for his mother, and hired himself out to ship's cook on
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the Lilith. That was the end of his landboundedness, the last he saw
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of his mother, and the end of his childhood.
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Over the years, the memory of that piece of ivory had meant many
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things to Simon. When he was young, he had hated it, for it was a
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symbol of his mother's attempts to keep him home, and his failure to
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live up to the expectations of others. During his many years at sea,
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he had both loved it as a symbol of his freedom and success and
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hated it still for the failure associated with it. Now he could only
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look back at the wealth of emotion attached to the object and feel
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all that he had gone through once more, and cry.
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-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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Rendezvous
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The aging alchemist Gilman awaited an appointment with a
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customer, but that did not make the mysterious, nocturnal visitor
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any more welcome. His silver however was, and Gilman knew well
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enough not to inquire too deeply into its source. It rankled him
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that respectable patrons were so rare these days with the rise of
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the mystic cult Masgrah, which seemed to be developing into a full
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blown hanse. The members, which included most of the aristocracy of
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the city of Magnus, were forbidden to deal with outsiders except as
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absolutely necessary. Gilman refused to give into these ecomonmic
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coercions but unless he did something soon his business would fail.
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His eminent customer's medicinal orders were some of the few
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means of support he could find in his toubled situation, tough the
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covertness often bothered Gilman. Gilman had wondered about the man
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since he had first entered his laboratory almost a year past. At
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first appearance the youth seemed to be among the riffraff commonly
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encountered in the poorer sections of any city the size of Magnus.
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He appeared unwashed, unkept, and half-starved; his clothing little
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more than rags. His face seemed a battlefield of pox scars. But the
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feature which repulsed Gilman most was the constant twitches and
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jerks which wracked the youth's frame. Still, he possessed two
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qualities which did not align with this image: money and a classical
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education. Gilman often worried about the source of funds which
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allowed him to acquire such rare ingredients at what Gilman well
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knew to be inflated costs. He had been similarly astounded to
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glimpse the youth's knowledge in classical science and literature in
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their discussions. So great was his education that Gilman often
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wondered why his own services were required by the youth at all. But
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then the youth's unsteadiness and nervous aggitation would be a
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major hindrance in the laboratory. The youth's background was one
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mystery into which this well-meaning investigator would not pry as
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he feared the prospect of losing such a monetary find.
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A gentle but unrhythmic rapping roused Gilman from his thoughts.
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Approaching the barred door, Gilman called for his visitor's
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identity. The sole answer "Atros" was sufficient passage into the
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alchemist's combined laboratory and home. The youth appeared if
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anything to be more nervous than normal.
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"You have completed the Nepenthe of the Mahedeos?" Atros asked.
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His articulation was so flawless that once again it startled Gilman.
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"I await only the second half of the payment," Gilman answered
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noticing the strange expression in the youth's eyes. "It is by far
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the strongest nepenthe that I have ever compounded. Its potency will
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surely overcome the tolerance which you seem to be developing. I
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promise that your sleep will be both deep and undisturbed by dreams
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if you imbibe in this 'Little Death'." Gilman chuckled lamely,
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growing uncomfortable.
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"I'm afraid that I don't have the money yet, but surely some
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arrangement could be worked out," Atros said with a rehearsed tone.
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"That is not according to our agreement nor my policy. Full
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payment on reception of the vial." Gilman had already promised the
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youth's coins to a creditor by the following day.
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"Allow me to take it and I will have your money within three
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days," Atros offered weakly.
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"No, I cannot accept credit. I cannot...." Gilman's mind filled
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with his eminent monetary troubles.
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"There is no other alternative?" Atros asked faintly.
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"No." Gilman responded hardly rising from his worries.
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The youth seemed to be taken by a particularly violent jerk of
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his right arm which flew toward the old man. In a near blinding
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flash of motion, Atros wedged a knife in the old man's chest. Gilman
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stared in astonishment, gurgled once, and died. Already beginning to
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mentally curse his impulse, Atros removed the knife and cleaned the
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blade. Not for the first time had he tragically let his instinct
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rather than his mind control his actions.
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"Fool! Coward! Where will I ever find another supplier!" Atros
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shouted at himself. After a moment, "He was just a harmless old
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man..." he mumbled leaning over the body, accepting yet one more
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burden of guilt.
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He began to search the building knowing that Gilman's
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apprentices would discover the crime at sunrise. He easily located
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both the vial of nepenthe and Gilman's alchemical notes and texts.
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With greater effort he found the old man's disappointingly small
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cache of coins. Careful so as not to be seen he slipped from the
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building and returned to the hovel in which he was currently residing.
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Once there he began to consider his situation. Surely, Gilman's
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apprentices knew of his nocturnal visits. He would never escape the
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headman's block if he remained in Magnus. He resolved to leave as
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quickly as he could pack his meager possessions, which were mostly
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comprised of rare and coveted books on a wide range of subjects. He
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was reluctant to leave any of his prizes but he realized that they
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would only slow him down in his flight. Quickly, he made his
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selections and headed for the north gate. He had heard of a distant
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port near Dargon where a man might lie low for a few months. He
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hoped that such a place could cater to his needs, but he realized
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that skilled alchemists were quite rare, especially ones who would
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accept a client as unaristocratic as he himself appeared. He tried
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to convince himself that his change of residence would be an
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oppurtuntity to begin anew, but he had drifted too much not to know
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that you always take yourself along with you. Within a few minutes
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he slipped past the guards at the northern gate and was leagues
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distant from the city by sunrise.
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A few hours after sundown of the following day, Atros sat near a
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small campfire in a secluded grove far to the north. Though he was
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very weary he had taken a great deal of time preparing as good a
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meal as possible under the circumstances. Of course, he had only
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attempted to delay the inevitable. Finally, he lay close to the
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small fire huddled in rags and slept for the first time in many
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days. Well aware of the finite supply of the nepenthe, he had chose
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not to partake of the drug hoping that the weariness of his body
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would prevent dreaming. He had been wrong.
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Atros didn't know when he first became aware. The environment
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about him had come into being quite gradually. Perhaps it was the
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heat of the forge itself which had roused him. Atros knew almost
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instantly that this was a dream, at least it was what other people
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in the waking world called a dream, though Atros was no longer so
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certain of the distinction. He also quickly realized that this was
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one of those few dreams wherein he was present as only a
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discorporate observer. This frightened him since such dreams, with
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their innate feeling of helplessness, were often the worst.
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His point of perception was suspended about three feet above a
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curiously crafted forge or oven. It was a hollow stone cube with two
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opposing sides open. Within the cube a bank of red coals were fanned
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by a strange wind which passed through the cube's open faces. The
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forge itself seemed to be composed of a gritty, brown rock which was
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encrusted in soot.
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Atros first perceived a disturbance in this scene with the
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sounds of the approach of several person who were beyound his field
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of vision, which seemed to be fixed downward. Shortly, he
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periferally sensed a dark, muscular figure who examined the coal
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bed, grunted, and placed a long, somewhat squared bar of black metal
|
|
into the forge. The metal quickly grew red with firery intensity.
|
|
After a time, the man, whom Atros took to be the smith, removed
|
|
the brand, placed it atop the forge and set to striking it with a
|
|
blunt, iron mallet. Each blow seemed vaguely unsettling and
|
|
disturbing to the point that Atros mentally winced in anticipation
|
|
of each strike.
|
|
During this time another figure beyound Atros' sight began
|
|
speaking to a third. He seemed concerned that the metal was too
|
|
imperfect to temper it so harshly, but the third voice reassured him
|
|
that the alloy was finer than before crafted and that none other
|
|
could fill their purpose. This seemed to mollify the second voice to
|
|
some extent but his voice retained a tinge of nervous anxiety.
|
|
After what seemed to have been an eternity of excruciating blows
|
|
to Atros, he gained awareness enough to look upon the product of
|
|
these labors. He was astonished to discover a fantastically
|
|
beautiful, silver brand of glossy smooth finish extending from a
|
|
fine point down a double edged shaft to a thin tang bolt. Atros'
|
|
mind was awed by this creation while the smith wiped his sweaty grip
|
|
and brow on a soot-smeared rag.
|
|
A barely perceived motion suggested that one of the as yet
|
|
unseen figures had given the smith an ornately carved dark walnut
|
|
box, which the smith fumbled open. Inside lay a fine silver chisel
|
|
and a heavy mallet made entirely from a single casting of bone white
|
|
metal. Here again, the voice of the second figure gave caution. He
|
|
was unsure whether the forthcoming action was totally justified when
|
|
the dangers were fully considered, but the third reassured the smith
|
|
and set him about his task.
|
|
Carefully, the smith took the hammer and chisel in hand
|
|
positioning the chisel's tip on a point just below the sword's
|
|
point. He raised his right arm and with a mighty blow came down with
|
|
his full force which sent fine crack through the forge.
|
|
Simultaneously, Atros elsewhere perceived the astonished stares of
|
|
grocers, merchants, and midwives to a single clang from their
|
|
chapel's bell tower, which for centuries had been used to signal a
|
|
call to arms. This dual point of awareness was only momentarily
|
|
disorientating to Atros as he had experienced the like before in
|
|
other dreams. Returning to the forge, the bewildered Atros saw
|
|
engraved on the blade the entire word "Cogne", but the smith was not
|
|
yet finished.
|
|
Once again, his hammer rose and fell but with an even greater
|
|
force which further enlarged the forge's flaw. Once again, the high
|
|
noted report of the barrel-shaped warning bell drew attention of
|
|
distant farmers, herders, and millers. The blade now bore the highly
|
|
stylized word "Tu" at its mid-section.
|
|
The smith, exhaustion seeping from his pores, stretched his
|
|
frame over the hot forge to impart the last engraved word to the
|
|
haft. For the third and final time he drew his hammer high with
|
|
incredible slowness and delivered it with the unmatchable strength
|
|
that arose from the last of his reserves. As the block split, his
|
|
blow caused the sword to leap outward lodging the sword's point deep
|
|
within his abdomen. Exhausted by his efforts the smith calmly
|
|
accepted death. Simultaneously, the bells of the church tower broke
|
|
out in a furious and undying clangor demanding action from all the
|
|
denzines of the manor.
|
|
Struggling to keep out the clamor, Atros concentrated on the
|
|
still visible haft of the sword which rose from the crumpled form of
|
|
the smith. The word "Ipsem" was firmly engraved, but Atros also
|
|
noticed that a fine crack ran from this engraving to the tang bolt,
|
|
where its prescence might cause the handle to snap in its wielder's
|
|
grip at some future date. Still, the clangor of the bells continued
|
|
as Atros drifted apart from this vision.
|
|
|
|
After some moments, Atros rolled over in his sleep somewhat
|
|
roused by the bell. "Who was that? Dear." He called to the supine
|
|
form laying beside him in bed.
|
|
"Wrong number... Go back to sleep," a rich feminine voice replied.
|
|
Atros drifted into sleep once more.
|
|
|
|
Atros awoke with a startled cry jumping to his feet and throwing
|
|
some of the begraggled bedding into the smoldering coals of the
|
|
nearby campfire. He was sweating profusely though the night air was
|
|
quite cold. Quickly, he rescued what scraps he could from the flames
|
|
and croached back near the fire. He struggled to force the
|
|
unpleasant recollections of his dreams from his mind. Aided by that
|
|
natural psychological force which seperates our dream lives from our
|
|
wakeful lives by forgetfullness, he managed after an hour to recall
|
|
only that his dreams had been most unpleasant. No longer willing to
|
|
take such chances, Atros quaffed a rather large dose of nepenthe and
|
|
gradually returned to unconsciousness. His final thoughts lingered
|
|
on the translated phrase which occupied his mind long after his
|
|
dream had been forgotten. Still, he recognized that he had
|
|
considered the phrase vitally important only moments ago. To the
|
|
occasionally cynical mind of Atros, "Know you yourself" now seemed
|
|
just a sample of that profound sounding drivel which streetcorner
|
|
philosophers fostered on the unwary. It could not be worth troubling
|
|
one's sleep over so, he let this too pass from his mind. Gilman's
|
|
word, after all, had been good. Atros experienced the sleep of the
|
|
dead for the next nine hours.
|
|
A few minutes after Atros had administered himself with the drug
|
|
and safely passed the arms of Morpheus without mishap, a black
|
|
cloaked figure arose from the brush at the edge of the fire light,
|
|
floated smoothly across the glen floor, and stood motionless above
|
|
Atros' helpless form. It stood thus until nearly daybreak then
|
|
glided into the nearby depths of the wood to wait yet again.
|
|
-Joseph Curwen <C418433 @ UMCVMB>
|
|
|
|
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
|
|
|
|
Exile
|
|
Michiya awoke to the cries of sea gulls in the early morning
|
|
hours of his last day at sea. He carefully groomed himself and
|
|
donned a pair of stark white trousers. On top of this he wore a blue
|
|
and white patterned shirt. About his waist he wrapped a pale blue
|
|
sash pinned together with a tiny ivory figurine of a Kitsune.
|
|
Through the sash he thrust the swords given to him by his father. As
|
|
he reached the door of his small cabin he stopped and looked back at
|
|
the black lacquer case next to his bed. He turned around and knelt
|
|
in front it with his hand on the latch. After a moment he lifted the
|
|
top and reached under the clothes to remove the two ancient swords
|
|
given to him by his uncle Sasaki as he left home. He looked
|
|
longingly at them and eventually told himself 'Michiya, you are a
|
|
long way from home and the time has come for you to accept the
|
|
changes in your life! Put away your boyhood swords and bear these
|
|
ancient blades with the honor you deserve.' It was the first time he
|
|
had borne the two beautiful swords since receiving them as he left
|
|
home. After a short prayer to the Storm God Susano-wo for continued
|
|
good sailing, he went out on deck. For a long moment he stood
|
|
watching the sunrise until the mate called out to him, 'Good morning
|
|
Ittosai-san.'
|
|
'Hai,' he whispered, 'totemo ii desu ne!' Turning to the mate he
|
|
called 'Good morning Stiben-san, when will we be arriving in Darugon?'
|
|
Checking the sun and the colour of the water, he replied 'Just
|
|
before lunch if the wind holds up. Why don't we go below and get
|
|
something to eat with the night crew before they eat their foolish
|
|
heads off and leave nothing for us?'
|
|
Taking Steven's suggestion to catch an early breakfast with the
|
|
crew he was treated to a meal of lightly fried fish and potatoes.
|
|
Potatoes were one few thing he had found to his liking since leaving
|
|
his homeland so he ate with great enjoyment. Listening to the
|
|
sailors talk of their expected docking later that day he realized
|
|
how much he missed his homeland. Weary of hearing their foreign
|
|
tongue that he had been forced to learn out of necessity, he drifted
|
|
off into a reminiscence of his final good bye to his uncle.
|
|
|
|
The bitter winter winds had swept the dock clean of snow that
|
|
cold night in Yoshida. The cold irritated the freshly bandaged wound
|
|
in his leg as he stood there waiting for his uncle. He considered
|
|
returning to Osaka and facing his enemies rather than leave the
|
|
country. His uncle insisted that this was the only proper course of
|
|
action available to him, but leaving hurt his pride. Just as he
|
|
decided that was exactly what he would do, he saw his uncle approach
|
|
carrying a bundle under his arm.
|
|
Kneeling before his uncle he said 'Uncle-san, my apologies but
|
|
my sense of honor demands I return to Osaka and face the Itokawa clan.'
|
|
His uncle, Ittosai Sasaki, replied 'You will do no such thing!
|
|
The Itokawa clan is acting dishonorably in their attacks against
|
|
you. They send many of their Samurai after you, a lone ji-zamurai,
|
|
just because they cannot accept that one of their children could
|
|
possibly be defeated by you. Once they capture you and find out who
|
|
you are, they will declare an illegal blood feud on our small clan.
|
|
I will not allow the Ittosai clan to be destroyed to salve their
|
|
hurt pride. You have acted honorably all along, it is no dishonor
|
|
for you to leave now and save your family. Go now, and may Susano-wo
|
|
bless your travels.'
|
|
'But uncle-san!' he replied 'I do not feel so very honorable at
|
|
the moment. Why are they so respected, if they act so dishonorably?'
|
|
Sasaki thought a while before answering, 'They are very
|
|
powerful, and they aided the new Shogunate on its rise to power.
|
|
With such credentials many things are overlooked.' At this point he
|
|
began unwrapping the bundle at his side. Inside was a beautiful old
|
|
Dai-sho. Holding it out to Michiya he said 'I want you to take this
|
|
and bear it with the same honor your great grandfather did after the
|
|
son of heaven, Emperor Go-Shirakawa, gave it to him with his blessing.'
|
|
With trembling hands, Michiya accepted the ancient blades, but
|
|
said 'Uncle-san, I cannot accept this gift! They belong in our
|
|
family shrine!'
|
|
'Do not argue with an old man on a cold night! Take them now and
|
|
board the ship.' With that his uncle turned around and stalked off
|
|
into the night. Rising stiffly to his feet, Michiya turned and
|
|
boarded the foreign trade ship, The Singing Mermaid.
|
|
|
|
His reverie was broken then by the yells of the crew as they
|
|
prepared to enter the port. He went up on deck and headed forward to
|
|
get out of the crew's way and get a good look at his new home. It
|
|
wasn't as colorful as his home back in Bichu province nor as
|
|
spotlessly clean, but it could have been worse. Some of the ports
|
|
that they had stopped in to restock their food supplies had been
|
|
smelly cesspools.
|
|
As they docked, the Captain approached, and said 'Michiya-san,
|
|
the crew has unshipped your crates and is ready to unload them. As
|
|
you are new to Dargon, I have taken the liberty of ordering them to
|
|
carry your belongings to a respectable inn called "The Inn of the
|
|
Hungry Shark". Thomas the bartender is a friend of mine, tell him I
|
|
sent you and he will make sure that you are treated with respect.'
|
|
'Thank you Captain Markus-san' Michiya replied with a bow 'I was
|
|
wondering where I would stay until I became understanding of this
|
|
place. I have enjoyed the trip and the company of you and your crew.
|
|
I would also like to thank you for teaching me your language.'
|
|
'No thanks are necessary' said the Captain. 'It has been a
|
|
pleasure to have you on board these last few months. In fact it is I
|
|
who should be thanking you for your assistance in dealing with those
|
|
pirates last month. I usually am able to go for years with no such
|
|
encounters, and every time I have had an encounter I've been lucky
|
|
to drive them off. Now I think it'll be quite a while till I have to
|
|
worry again.'
|
|
Looking rather embarrassed Michiya said 'It was nothing, please
|
|
stop, such flattery to my head will travel. I not so special am...'
|
|
At this point Michiya broke off in confusion and further
|
|
embarrassment over his poor English.
|
|
Saying good bye to the Captain, Michiya went ashore. It finally
|
|
sunk home to him that he was in a foreign land. Nowhere that he
|
|
looked, did he see any of his people. At this point he noticed a
|
|
brightly colored wagon with an umbrella. The owner was a merchant
|
|
and was selling some stew. Going over to the wagon he got some "Sun
|
|
Sweet" stew which was quite good. Instinctively he had brought out a
|
|
pair of hashi to eat with, but this seemed to offend the owner's pet
|
|
monkey. The little creature grabbed a spoon and thrust it at him.
|
|
Not wishing to offend to little monkey any further, he accepted the
|
|
spoon. Handing over a gold koku to the little monkey he quietly
|
|
complemented it. 'Anata wa kawakute chisaii saru imasu ne!'
|
|
His comment seemed to puzzle the monkey who was obviously
|
|
pretending that he didn't understand. Taking his leave of the soup
|
|
vendor, he thought to himself that the merchants over here were
|
|
definately an improvement over the ones' back in Nihon. Back home
|
|
they grubbed for anything they could get and had no self respect at
|
|
all. The crew members carrying his supplies brought him to a
|
|
reasonably clean and tidy inn. Here he was introduced to Thomas the
|
|
bartender. After finding out who had sent him, Thomas set him up in
|
|
a small but nice room on the second floor.
|
|
After a short rest, Michiya went back down stairs and asked
|
|
Thomas to explain the Dargon monetary system to him.
|
|
Thomas sighed and began to explain the long sad story as he saw
|
|
it. 'At first there were only two coinage systems in use. One was
|
|
the Shapkan system which had only two types of coins in modern
|
|
usage. The two coins were of copper and silver. The other system was
|
|
the Baranur system which had three basic coins. These coins were
|
|
gold marks, silver rounds, and copper bits. The copper coin is of
|
|
the same value as the Shapkan copper, but the silver coins were of
|
|
different worth. Recently though, the Rand system has been
|
|
introduced by our Lord Clifton Dargon to "simplify matters". It is a
|
|
sort of average between the two systems and also has three basic
|
|
coins like the Baranur system. Once again the copper coins are of
|
|
common value with all the others, but the silver coins are of yet a
|
|
third new value and the gold coin is of a different value than the
|
|
Baranur gold mark.'
|
|
Michiya stood there taking this in thinking to himself that
|
|
'This is madness! How could any one want more than one money system?
|
|
One money system alone is bad enough, but three will surely cause
|
|
greed and hatred.' Michiya thanked Thomas for his help and went out
|
|
for some sight seeing. During his wanderings he passed by a farmers
|
|
market where he bought some cucumbers. Back home they were
|
|
considered a delicacy and he hadn't had any for a long time so he
|
|
was quite happy when he returned to The Inn of the Hungry Shark for
|
|
dinner. Michiya spent the next few days in somewhat the same manner,
|
|
though he was constantly on the look out for something he could do
|
|
to support himself in an honorable fashion. He realized that he
|
|
could not live forever on the cash that he brought with him and was
|
|
quite concerned with his future.
|
|
One night as he was taking his evening walk after dinner Michiya
|
|
wandered into one of the seedier sections of town. Having been
|
|
warned by Thomas that thieves and cutthroats were known to attack
|
|
people from time to time in the area, he was on his guard. Shortly
|
|
after passing a dark and smelly alley way he heard a sudden stealthy
|
|
sound behind him. Without pausing to look, Michiya spun about while
|
|
dropping to his left knee and drawing his katana. Just as he dropped
|
|
he heard the sound of a thrown dagger pass right over his head.
|
|
Silently muttering a brief thanks to Hachiman, he rose to meet the
|
|
rush of the attacking thief. The thief didn't look too happy about
|
|
the turn of events, but had already committed himself to the attack
|
|
with his charge. Michiya turned a parry of the thief's first swing
|
|
into a wheel stroke, expecting the fellow to jump back and avoid the
|
|
swing. Instead his attacker tried to parry but was hopelessly out of
|
|
position. The swing cut through the thief's left arm and made a
|
|
shallow cut in the side of his chest. Dropping the sword with a
|
|
scream the thief grabbed at the stump of his left arm and stared at
|
|
it in disbelief. Michiya was also shocked. He had been told that the
|
|
local thieves were reasonably skilled in weapons and had assumed
|
|
that they would all know the only possible response to such a basic
|
|
attack. He hadn't wanted to kill or even seriously maim the man,
|
|
only wound him slightly to drive him off. The thief fell to his
|
|
knees and begged 'Please don't kill me! Here, I'll give you
|
|
everything I have!'
|
|
Michiya noted that the man was going to pass out from blood loss
|
|
any minute now, so told him 'Keep your money and your life. I had
|
|
only intended to try to scare you off and am now ashamed at myself
|
|
for my failure. Take this as a token of my sorrow over what has
|
|
happened here tonight.' With that statement Michiya tossed the man a
|
|
small gold koku and turned away. The thief stared numbly at the
|
|
small gold coin still disbelieving what was happening. Shakily he
|
|
reached out, picked up the coin, slipped it into his belt pouch and
|
|
staggered of into the night clutching at his arm.
|
|
As Michiya stood there wondering what to do, he heard the sound
|
|
of many running footsteps approaching. Thinking that more assailants
|
|
were on the way he began to step into darkness when he realized that
|
|
it was the city guard. Shaking off the blood from his sword, Michiya
|
|
sheathed it and stood there calmly in the middle of the street.
|
|
Six men in uniform came running down the road. Three of them
|
|
immediately surrounded him and two of the others spread out and
|
|
started searching the area. The last man, who seemed to be in charge
|
|
came over to Michiya and asked 'Who are you sir and what went on here?'
|
|
'Ittosai Michiya I am' he replied 'I was just by a thief attacked.'
|
|
At this point one of the searchers came running up with the arm
|
|
and sword of the thief who had attacked him. He approached the
|
|
officer and pointing in the direction of the fight said 'Sir! We
|
|
found these over there by that alley.'
|
|
Unshuttering his lantern, the officer inspected the sword. With
|
|
a start of surprise, the officer exclaimed 'This is Captain Koren's
|
|
sword. It was stolen from him a week ago!' With this he turned to
|
|
Michiya and said 'Sir, I apologize for the rude manner with which I
|
|
initially treated you. In this neighborhood we have to assume the
|
|
worst about anyone we don't know. I am Kalen Darklen and am pleased
|
|
to meet you.'
|
|
Michiya noted that the soldiers relaxed as he replied with a bow
|
|
'I am honored to meet you Kalen-san. Unduly impolite for the
|
|
situation, you and your men I did not find'.
|
|
They chatted pleasantly for a while and eventually Michiya was
|
|
invited back to the barracks near the Keep to return Captain
|
|
Koren's sword. Michiya was initially hesitant to go there and
|
|
embarrass the man in such a fashion. After all losing a sword was a
|
|
horribly embarrassing thing. Kalen reassured him that it wasn't
|
|
quite that bad of an embarrassment here in the west.
|
|
Eventually Michiya returned to The Inn of The Hungry Shark with
|
|
an escort this time, went to bed, and dreamt of home.
|
|
-Eric Holmquist <MSA1 @ UCONNVM>
|
|
|
|
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
|
|
|