I just realized how many threads I started...so I'll just put the newer Az stories here as I feel like saving them.
Rabbits and Rainbows - tale told recently in the Dundee Inn
Well, you may have heard how the fierce warrior bunny was granted the ability to run up a hill more quickly then down, but I don't think I've told any how the bunny gained its long ears. This too is from a collection of stories from the folks who believe in spirits and know not of the gods.
The bunny, or rabbit as they are called there, was quite content after the battle with the warlike creatures. The Rabbit's people had won the day for the others, with help from that one spirit of course. And Rabbit was hoping for a long easy time so he could rest and all. Just like with us nowadays, this was not going to happen for poor Rabbit.
He was out enjoying the warm sun and soft breezes when he heard a soft murmuring, like people not wanting to be overheard. Rabbit, of course, was a curious fellow and drew nearer hoping to hear more. Now don't blame him. For although what he did was rude, it all came out well in the end - for what Rabbit heard was terrible! Why even now, I can barely bring myself to speak of it, but I shall, for how else will you ever hear this tale?
Rabbit heard Black and Brown speaking. (Colors in those days spoke you know.) It seems they had heard of a new invention - the rainbow. They’d also heard that the spirits were going to hold an audition to see which colors would be in it. Black didn't like the idea at all. "Why, colors in a rainbow? How ridiculous! It will brighten up dark things and that should not be" he said.
Well, if Black didn't like the idea, Brown hated it even more. "Nothing like a rainbow type thing to break up a perfectly dreary, drab place,” he growled. “Why ever would the spirits want to do that to me?"
As Rabbit listened in horrified amazement, the two unveiled their fiendish plot! They would go around to all the other colors and spread vicious rumors and nasty sayings. The only one who knew this was Rabbit, who shouldn't have known it anyways, but he did thanks to his curiosity.
But he had crept too close to the two foul colors, and they heard a noise he made in the nearby brush. They quickly took pieces of themselves and flung them at him. Small bits spattered on him as he fled, and that's why to this day, some rabbits have brown and black bits on them, but Rabbit made it to safety and ran to tell the Spirits.
Rabbits though, even ones gifted with speed, don't move as fast as colors and Spirits. By the time he got there, Black and Brown had already started their dirty work. Already Red and Green weren't speaking to each other, and Yellow and Violet were pretty close to that. Green and Blue had banded together against the others...especially that nasty Orange. Colors were dashing hither and yon, accusing each other, making alliances, and generally behaving terribly. Why, you couldn't imagine how terrible things were getting!
Rabbit slipped in, and tried to hide from Black and Brown while looking for the Spirits to tell his tale to. However, they spotted him and drew closer and closer; quick as a lightning strike, Rabbit jumped on a chair and blurted out the tale, while protecting his own. The colors fell silent and looked at Black and Brown. The spirits came out and banished the two from the rainbow tryout.
To reward Rabbit for his brave actions, the Spirits lengthened his ears, and the ears of his children, so they'd never be at such risk again. Even now, rabbits can hear things far away, and you never know when one is listening in on your conversation.
And the rainbow colors? Well the color war couldn't be patched up that quickly, so the order of the rainbow was made to keep friends near and enemies far away. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet is the order. And the rainbow was saved thanks to Rabbit and his curiosity.
edited to fix transfer problems.
Stories in Blue
Stories in Blue
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.
This story has been told twice by Az, both times in Cerbies. I used the terms turtles and snakes drawing from David Drake’s Hammer’s Slammers series. The story, as always, is mine.
note: this is not a tale in her series of myths and legends
Snakes and Turtles
There was once a swamp, or perhaps a marsh, and many turtles dwelt there in safety and happiness. At least they were as happy and safe as turtles could be. Although they were slow and fat, there was nothing to bother them, so they learned neither speed nor defense outside of barricading themselves into their shell homes.
Finally, a group of water weasels moved into the area and began decimating the turtles. They didn't know how to defend themselves, or how fight back. The water weasels could crack through their shells and extract the soft, tasty turtle flesh. Quickly, the turtles were losing a battle they had no ability to fight.
Many of the turtles did not wish to learn. They hoped the weasels would move on, and they could just ignore them and pretend the devastation was someone else's problem. They wanted to withdraw and hope. But after a bit longer, it became clear that wouldn’t fix the problems.
Finally, some turtles decided they needed to change. They grew sleek and fast, shedding their turtle fat and their habit of hiding and waiting out trouble. They could double back on themselves, quick as a flash, and could fight against the water weasels. Slowly, ever so slowly, they drove back the weasels.
When the trouble was gone, the turtles continued on their way, many even forgetting who helped them. Others remembered, but feared their helpers. And some, some wished them well, but knew the snakes’ path was not theirs. Some, very very few, would decide on the snakes' path.
You see, there need not be animosity. Snakes and turtles need each other to survive, live and thrive. And these words mean different things. Survival is not enough, but without it, how can we live or thrive?
The snakes, even after the weasels were driven off, chose to stay and help defend their homes...even if they weren't quite the same. Some tried to become turtles again, but once you've been a snake, you are always one in the eyes of those around you. Pretend to put turtle fat on as you will, it doesn't change your nature. And you find yourself betwixt and between .
We are snakes, and we defend the turtles...whether they thank us or not. Whether they know what we do or not. We may fool ourselves at times and pretend that we aren’t snakes, but it is a name of pride. At times, a turtle may choose to become a snake, and at times snakes may pretend, but we don't...we can't go back. We've seen the weasels you see.
And I for one wear my scales proudly
note: this is not a tale in her series of myths and legends
Snakes and Turtles
There was once a swamp, or perhaps a marsh, and many turtles dwelt there in safety and happiness. At least they were as happy and safe as turtles could be. Although they were slow and fat, there was nothing to bother them, so they learned neither speed nor defense outside of barricading themselves into their shell homes.
Finally, a group of water weasels moved into the area and began decimating the turtles. They didn't know how to defend themselves, or how fight back. The water weasels could crack through their shells and extract the soft, tasty turtle flesh. Quickly, the turtles were losing a battle they had no ability to fight.
Many of the turtles did not wish to learn. They hoped the weasels would move on, and they could just ignore them and pretend the devastation was someone else's problem. They wanted to withdraw and hope. But after a bit longer, it became clear that wouldn’t fix the problems.
Finally, some turtles decided they needed to change. They grew sleek and fast, shedding their turtle fat and their habit of hiding and waiting out trouble. They could double back on themselves, quick as a flash, and could fight against the water weasels. Slowly, ever so slowly, they drove back the weasels.
When the trouble was gone, the turtles continued on their way, many even forgetting who helped them. Others remembered, but feared their helpers. And some, some wished them well, but knew the snakes’ path was not theirs. Some, very very few, would decide on the snakes' path.
You see, there need not be animosity. Snakes and turtles need each other to survive, live and thrive. And these words mean different things. Survival is not enough, but without it, how can we live or thrive?
The snakes, even after the weasels were driven off, chose to stay and help defend their homes...even if they weren't quite the same. Some tried to become turtles again, but once you've been a snake, you are always one in the eyes of those around you. Pretend to put turtle fat on as you will, it doesn't change your nature. And you find yourself betwixt and between .
We are snakes, and we defend the turtles...whether they thank us or not. Whether they know what we do or not. We may fool ourselves at times and pretend that we aren’t snakes, but it is a name of pride. At times, a turtle may choose to become a snake, and at times snakes may pretend, but we don't...we can't go back. We've seen the weasels you see.
And I for one wear my scales proudly
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:36 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Great writings, Azy! I know a few people mentioned keeping them all in one place so that others may enjoy.
Don't stop.
Don't stop.
"... who, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat." -Roosevelt
Sreip Enudreklaw #55234
Sreip Enudreklaw #55234
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This one came about after Doyle told the story of Deek's restoration. It's another one of the stories Az heard or read growing up.
Jermal the Trader
It is said that within each of us is a spirit or soul. Here, thank the gods, when we die in battle or through foolish choices, we are brought back. This is not true of everywhere and this is the tale from one of those places.
Jermal was a trader, and he made a good living indeed. Silks, furs, spices, and gems were his stock. He rode a horse and had some pack animals, but that was it. The travel was what he enjoyed. He’d go Hither and Yon, and Yon and Hither, buying and selling. But he had a firm rule. To honor those who died, he would make no business on a funeral day. And he would pay fair price after.
Yes, it lost him some business, especially from those who wanted to liquidate their recently deceased relative’s assets before they were buried. Yes, those people exist. But he was a pious man and he kept to his beliefs.
Once as he was traveling halfway to Yon, having left Hither a few weeks earlier, several travelers fell in with him as he neared where he wanted to camp for the night. He traveled so often, he had places he liked staying.
Jermal felt uneasy about these chance met companions of the road, but there was nothing to be done. If they were robbers, he reasoned he’d be dead and stripped already.
He tried to make conversation, but he could not. It was as if he was trying to speak through a mouth full of dry bread. He started to slow down in order to set up camp, but the lead traveler shook his head. “We’ll travel further and camp safer” he said.
And Jermal, with no words to say, nodded and continued on.
They traveled and the light began to fade and again Jermal tried to stop, but they would have nothing of it. And he found he couldn’t stop under their gazes. They kept going and the dark began to fall. Jermal saw a dim green glow surround the other travelers. He felt cold, so cold…and still they traveled on.
Finally he fell asleep while riding. Not just soldiers have that skill! And in his dreams he heard a strange roaring, rushing sound. He heard thuds and bangs, but he didn’t wake, or maybe he couldn’t.
As dawn’s light began to show, Jermal woke. He felt chilled to the bone and his clothing hung on him loose and damp. His horse plodded on, exhausted, head hanging low. And as he watched – the travelers who had accompanied him so far, and far it was he later learned, faded away…their faint glow going last.
But Jermal could only tell his tale to the amazed people of Yon and not in Hither. For sometime in the last week, the earth had shook and the water rushed in; he found he had no memory of that time. And you couldn’t get from Yon to Hither and back again any more. But somehow, Jermal had managed to get from Hither to Yon, thanks to some…spiritual guidance.
And that is the tale as I first heard it.
Jermal the Trader
It is said that within each of us is a spirit or soul. Here, thank the gods, when we die in battle or through foolish choices, we are brought back. This is not true of everywhere and this is the tale from one of those places.
Jermal was a trader, and he made a good living indeed. Silks, furs, spices, and gems were his stock. He rode a horse and had some pack animals, but that was it. The travel was what he enjoyed. He’d go Hither and Yon, and Yon and Hither, buying and selling. But he had a firm rule. To honor those who died, he would make no business on a funeral day. And he would pay fair price after.
Yes, it lost him some business, especially from those who wanted to liquidate their recently deceased relative’s assets before they were buried. Yes, those people exist. But he was a pious man and he kept to his beliefs.
Once as he was traveling halfway to Yon, having left Hither a few weeks earlier, several travelers fell in with him as he neared where he wanted to camp for the night. He traveled so often, he had places he liked staying.
Jermal felt uneasy about these chance met companions of the road, but there was nothing to be done. If they were robbers, he reasoned he’d be dead and stripped already.
He tried to make conversation, but he could not. It was as if he was trying to speak through a mouth full of dry bread. He started to slow down in order to set up camp, but the lead traveler shook his head. “We’ll travel further and camp safer” he said.
And Jermal, with no words to say, nodded and continued on.
They traveled and the light began to fade and again Jermal tried to stop, but they would have nothing of it. And he found he couldn’t stop under their gazes. They kept going and the dark began to fall. Jermal saw a dim green glow surround the other travelers. He felt cold, so cold…and still they traveled on.
Finally he fell asleep while riding. Not just soldiers have that skill! And in his dreams he heard a strange roaring, rushing sound. He heard thuds and bangs, but he didn’t wake, or maybe he couldn’t.
As dawn’s light began to show, Jermal woke. He felt chilled to the bone and his clothing hung on him loose and damp. His horse plodded on, exhausted, head hanging low. And as he watched – the travelers who had accompanied him so far, and far it was he later learned, faded away…their faint glow going last.
But Jermal could only tell his tale to the amazed people of Yon and not in Hither. For sometime in the last week, the earth had shook and the water rushed in; he found he had no memory of that time. And you couldn’t get from Yon to Hither and back again any more. But somehow, Jermal had managed to get from Hither to Yon, thanks to some…spiritual guidance.
And that is the tale as I first heard it.
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
This one came about due to 1) listening to Blackmore's Night "Hanging Tree" and 2) being asked for a story at about the same time.
Az said it was a story her father told her.
The Hanging Tree
Have you ever walked into woods and felt safe…or felt you were being watched? Even if no one was there? It’s not imagination; it really does feel that way sometimes. Woods and forests have…flavors. Sometimes they grow them on their own, sometimes they’re given and sometimes they change.
There was a town once, that had strict laws, but until a mayor came who enforced them, no one paid them much mind. But overnight things began to change. Folks who did anything against these laws were punished, sometimes quite severely. Some were glad and some weren’t. But that’s what happens when things change. The ultimate punishment, though some might argue, was death. And for that, a large sturdy tree nearby was chosen.
The tree didn’t know why things had changed. Children no longer swung in her branches and young couples not longer courted underneath. Instead crowds gathered every so often for the hangings. People would jeer and hate, fear was what the tree felt….and later the sorrow as grieving families came to pick up the corpse of their son, or brother, or father.
And the tree grew dark. And she began to learn how to hate. The forest around her, full of her progeny, grew darker too. New saplings were inculcated with this from the moment their roots sprouted or their seed casings split open.
The people darkened the tree, who in turn, darkened the area. The town fell onto hard times and people were lured away to other places. Slowly the population dwindled, bringing it to the size of a village, then a hamlet, then a few families and then…nothing.
And the tree continued to hate and spew her darkness…the darkness that had been forced upon her.
Years passed, and the tree continued to grow in size and power. The area around became one folks did not travel through lightly. Many were the tales told and the warnings given. But finally, one day, a man pulling a handcart through the rough old road came into the area and he stopped before the tree. She was the largest and grandest in the area now...she had forced out any larger ones.
He stood before the tree for a long moment and then bowed. “We are to be neighbors you and I. I hope you don’t mind. But my family needs a place to live” was what he said. The tree was incensed! How dare this…this human come here? She had been alone in her hate for so long. Angrily she flung a branch at him.
At the last moment he stepped to the side; then he surprised the tree. He bowed again, more deeply, and said “I thank you for this gift, I will treasure it.” And then he walked off.
The tree didn’t see him for many days, and the air was getting colder when he returned. Again he bowed to the tree and began to tell her of the small house he built, and how his wife was settling in.
The tree was too surprised to do anything at first but listen, then out of rage she flung down several branches.
The man bowed again and gathered them up. “I thank you, for you know how cold the winter gets, and you share yourself with us.” And he went away again with her gift of anger cradled to his breast like something precious.
All during her winter sleep time the tree turned over the man’s words. He was so strange! But still she hated, and still the woods were dark and gloomy.
When spring came and new leaves came forth, she put some extra effort into her leaves. She didn’t know why, but she did. Then the man came again and complimented her on them. And she didn’t throw anything.
He visited a few times that year, telling her the news of his wife and the fact she was pregnant. How his little farm was going. Simple, everyday things. And each time he bowed to her, and each time he found something to praise.
And slowly, she hated less. But there were moments she still raged. And times she rained down a hail of leaves and branches at the man. Each time, he bowed more deeply and thanked her for her presents.
And winter came, and she slept well and deeply.
In the spring, on a warm day, the man came back. He carried a basket put together from some of what she had thrown at him. He greeted her again, and smiling tilted the basket so she could see the tiny form nestled within. “My son” he said proudly. And though she rained down some twigs and leaves, none came near the father and son. Perhaps it was more from habit then anything else.
Over time, he brought his slowly growing family to visit the tree. And over time, the woods became filled with the sounds of children’s play. They grew lighter as the Tree’s heartwood grew lighter as well. And still the man would visit and speak with his silent friend. But his steps were slower now, and he needed to rest on the way.
One spring, instead of him visiting, his family did instead and they carried a cloth wrapped bundle with them. The oldest son approached the tree and bowed deeply, like his father had taught him. And told the tree of her friend’s passing and how they were going to bury him, but he had wanted to visit her one last time.
Deep inside her, she felt a rage, not the slow rage of wood but something different, fiercer. And she felt sorry, for he was gone. She could have done several things right then…including slaying the entire family in front of her and going back to hating. But she remembered his talks with her, and she mourned. With a deep crack one of her lower branches fell to the ground next to them and cracked open exposing a hollow core.
With a groan, she moved her roots and the ground opened up.
The young man bowed again and going back to his family they placed the form of her friend in the branch and bound it closed. And they lowered it into the open ground at the tree’s foot. She moved her roots again to embrace her first friend in such a long time. And the ground closed, and the tree mourned. But she did not turn back to darkness and hate, for her friend had shown her what love is.
Az said it was a story her father told her.
The Hanging Tree
Have you ever walked into woods and felt safe…or felt you were being watched? Even if no one was there? It’s not imagination; it really does feel that way sometimes. Woods and forests have…flavors. Sometimes they grow them on their own, sometimes they’re given and sometimes they change.
There was a town once, that had strict laws, but until a mayor came who enforced them, no one paid them much mind. But overnight things began to change. Folks who did anything against these laws were punished, sometimes quite severely. Some were glad and some weren’t. But that’s what happens when things change. The ultimate punishment, though some might argue, was death. And for that, a large sturdy tree nearby was chosen.
The tree didn’t know why things had changed. Children no longer swung in her branches and young couples not longer courted underneath. Instead crowds gathered every so often for the hangings. People would jeer and hate, fear was what the tree felt….and later the sorrow as grieving families came to pick up the corpse of their son, or brother, or father.
And the tree grew dark. And she began to learn how to hate. The forest around her, full of her progeny, grew darker too. New saplings were inculcated with this from the moment their roots sprouted or their seed casings split open.
The people darkened the tree, who in turn, darkened the area. The town fell onto hard times and people were lured away to other places. Slowly the population dwindled, bringing it to the size of a village, then a hamlet, then a few families and then…nothing.
And the tree continued to hate and spew her darkness…the darkness that had been forced upon her.
Years passed, and the tree continued to grow in size and power. The area around became one folks did not travel through lightly. Many were the tales told and the warnings given. But finally, one day, a man pulling a handcart through the rough old road came into the area and he stopped before the tree. She was the largest and grandest in the area now...she had forced out any larger ones.
He stood before the tree for a long moment and then bowed. “We are to be neighbors you and I. I hope you don’t mind. But my family needs a place to live” was what he said. The tree was incensed! How dare this…this human come here? She had been alone in her hate for so long. Angrily she flung a branch at him.
At the last moment he stepped to the side; then he surprised the tree. He bowed again, more deeply, and said “I thank you for this gift, I will treasure it.” And then he walked off.
The tree didn’t see him for many days, and the air was getting colder when he returned. Again he bowed to the tree and began to tell her of the small house he built, and how his wife was settling in.
The tree was too surprised to do anything at first but listen, then out of rage she flung down several branches.
The man bowed again and gathered them up. “I thank you, for you know how cold the winter gets, and you share yourself with us.” And he went away again with her gift of anger cradled to his breast like something precious.
All during her winter sleep time the tree turned over the man’s words. He was so strange! But still she hated, and still the woods were dark and gloomy.
When spring came and new leaves came forth, she put some extra effort into her leaves. She didn’t know why, but she did. Then the man came again and complimented her on them. And she didn’t throw anything.
He visited a few times that year, telling her the news of his wife and the fact she was pregnant. How his little farm was going. Simple, everyday things. And each time he bowed to her, and each time he found something to praise.
And slowly, she hated less. But there were moments she still raged. And times she rained down a hail of leaves and branches at the man. Each time, he bowed more deeply and thanked her for her presents.
And winter came, and she slept well and deeply.
In the spring, on a warm day, the man came back. He carried a basket put together from some of what she had thrown at him. He greeted her again, and smiling tilted the basket so she could see the tiny form nestled within. “My son” he said proudly. And though she rained down some twigs and leaves, none came near the father and son. Perhaps it was more from habit then anything else.
Over time, he brought his slowly growing family to visit the tree. And over time, the woods became filled with the sounds of children’s play. They grew lighter as the Tree’s heartwood grew lighter as well. And still the man would visit and speak with his silent friend. But his steps were slower now, and he needed to rest on the way.
One spring, instead of him visiting, his family did instead and they carried a cloth wrapped bundle with them. The oldest son approached the tree and bowed deeply, like his father had taught him. And told the tree of her friend’s passing and how they were going to bury him, but he had wanted to visit her one last time.
Deep inside her, she felt a rage, not the slow rage of wood but something different, fiercer. And she felt sorry, for he was gone. She could have done several things right then…including slaying the entire family in front of her and going back to hating. But she remembered his talks with her, and she mourned. With a deep crack one of her lower branches fell to the ground next to them and cracked open exposing a hollow core.
With a groan, she moved her roots and the ground opened up.
The young man bowed again and going back to his family they placed the form of her friend in the branch and bound it closed. And they lowered it into the open ground at the tree’s foot. She moved her roots again to embrace her first friend in such a long time. And the ground closed, and the tree mourned. But she did not turn back to darkness and hate, for her friend had shown her what love is.
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:38 pm, edited 1 time in total.
A rather humorous (I hope) tale that Az told some time ago...supposedly the first of many Mathmagician and Numberjack stories she knows.
Once there lived an enchanter, who unlike the ones here, didn’t rely on elucidators and crystals for his spells, but math instead. He was so powerful at this sort of spellwork, that people had forgotten his name and called him the Mathmagician instead.
He did many great things, from helping someone figure out how many board lengths they could get out of a felled tree, using ‘gee I’m a tree’ of course, to helping Farmer Brown figure out how many seeds he needed to properly plant his field. He was so good, he could even count chickens before they hatched! It was easy as pie to him…korunga pie of course”
But there was one thing that almost defeated him, almost killed him in fact. And that was when the cruel thief Numberjack struck!
Yes, the thief Numberjack…not for him the title of rogue, oh no. He was cruel and nasty and enjoyed stealing candy before it could be given to children. Numberjack could merely look at someone and know to the silver their wealth. And he’d figure out how to make it his. And he absolutely hated the Mathmagician because he was kind and helpful to all. And foiled his schemes left and right.
The sad part is, at first, the Mathmagician didn’t even know he existed.
But then Numberjack devised his most fearsome scheme ever, he was going to steal all the numbers in the land! If he managed that, people wouldn’t be able to do much at all. How could you dicker in the marketplace, figure out swamps, or even count your hatched chickens?
He began with the large ones, figuring folks used them less frequently and might not notice them missing. But, by the time he got to one hundred, the merchants knew something was wrong. By the time he got to eleven, even the Warriors noticed - they didn’t need to take off their boots anymore”
The Mathmagician who had been busy studying infinity realized there was a problem as soon as Thud the Barbarian pounded on the door. He’d worked with Thud before, and he’d never seen him look so nervous.
Thud quickly, well for him, explained that he wasn’t sure how many fingers he had. This wasn’t anything new, and the Mathmagician pointed that out.
But Thud shook his head and held up his right hand. “How many gots?” he asked. And that’s when the Mathmagician knew there was a problem. Thud could count up to five and he only had three fingers on that hand, having lost the others in an ax catching contest.
The Mathmagician began studying the problem, and realized something horrible. “Someone’s hijacked all the numbers! I must do something about it.” He paced back and forth, and forth and back when he got tired of the first type. He tugged on his beard, and he thought some more. But he couldn’t find the numbers anywhere.
All was not lost though, for he suddenly had an idea. “Eureka” he cried and began to two step around the room. It was one of the few numbers left you see. Thud watched curiously. “I need your ax and your mighty thews Thud!” And the Mathmagician took Thud up to his study, two-stepping the whole way.
“We may not have the hijacked numbers, but we’ll make new ones.” Thud didn’t understand but the Mathmagician, using small words, explained. He pointed at what he had been studying and said simply. “Thud smash. That fixes things.” Thud’s face lit up with comprehension and he nodded. Raising his mighty ax he swung it into…yes, you guessed it…the piece of infinity the Mathmagician had been studying.
SMASH! Infinity split and numbers came pouring out. And even though Numberjack had taken them all, more were made in that instant.
And that’s how Mathmagician solved the case…easy as pie.
Once there lived an enchanter, who unlike the ones here, didn’t rely on elucidators and crystals for his spells, but math instead. He was so powerful at this sort of spellwork, that people had forgotten his name and called him the Mathmagician instead.
He did many great things, from helping someone figure out how many board lengths they could get out of a felled tree, using ‘gee I’m a tree’ of course, to helping Farmer Brown figure out how many seeds he needed to properly plant his field. He was so good, he could even count chickens before they hatched! It was easy as pie to him…korunga pie of course”
But there was one thing that almost defeated him, almost killed him in fact. And that was when the cruel thief Numberjack struck!
Yes, the thief Numberjack…not for him the title of rogue, oh no. He was cruel and nasty and enjoyed stealing candy before it could be given to children. Numberjack could merely look at someone and know to the silver their wealth. And he’d figure out how to make it his. And he absolutely hated the Mathmagician because he was kind and helpful to all. And foiled his schemes left and right.
The sad part is, at first, the Mathmagician didn’t even know he existed.
But then Numberjack devised his most fearsome scheme ever, he was going to steal all the numbers in the land! If he managed that, people wouldn’t be able to do much at all. How could you dicker in the marketplace, figure out swamps, or even count your hatched chickens?
He began with the large ones, figuring folks used them less frequently and might not notice them missing. But, by the time he got to one hundred, the merchants knew something was wrong. By the time he got to eleven, even the Warriors noticed - they didn’t need to take off their boots anymore”
The Mathmagician who had been busy studying infinity realized there was a problem as soon as Thud the Barbarian pounded on the door. He’d worked with Thud before, and he’d never seen him look so nervous.
Thud quickly, well for him, explained that he wasn’t sure how many fingers he had. This wasn’t anything new, and the Mathmagician pointed that out.
But Thud shook his head and held up his right hand. “How many gots?” he asked. And that’s when the Mathmagician knew there was a problem. Thud could count up to five and he only had three fingers on that hand, having lost the others in an ax catching contest.
The Mathmagician began studying the problem, and realized something horrible. “Someone’s hijacked all the numbers! I must do something about it.” He paced back and forth, and forth and back when he got tired of the first type. He tugged on his beard, and he thought some more. But he couldn’t find the numbers anywhere.
All was not lost though, for he suddenly had an idea. “Eureka” he cried and began to two step around the room. It was one of the few numbers left you see. Thud watched curiously. “I need your ax and your mighty thews Thud!” And the Mathmagician took Thud up to his study, two-stepping the whole way.
“We may not have the hijacked numbers, but we’ll make new ones.” Thud didn’t understand but the Mathmagician, using small words, explained. He pointed at what he had been studying and said simply. “Thud smash. That fixes things.” Thud’s face lit up with comprehension and he nodded. Raising his mighty ax he swung it into…yes, you guessed it…the piece of infinity the Mathmagician had been studying.
SMASH! Infinity split and numbers came pouring out. And even though Numberjack had taken them all, more were made in that instant.
And that’s how Mathmagician solved the case…easy as pie.
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:39 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Another tale recently told in Cerbies...
The Egret Who Greeted the Sun
The egret, snowy white bird that it is, once had an important duty. It was the bird who flew to greet the Sun as she rose and smiled down on the land.
And for a time, a long time, the Egret did his job well. Each morning, he would rise into the air and with a showy display wake and greet the Sun. The rest of the day was his, to do what he pleased. As evening approached, he would fly again to bid her farewell.
At one point, the egret who greeted the Sun lived near a swamp, as egrets often do. He would often hunt there for the tasty prey egrets like. One day, as he was hunting, he spied what looked like a floating log, but the Sun shone off of what appeared to be an eye! He drew closer and lo and behold, he saw a lovely young gator.
The egret, there and then, fell in love. Needless to say, the other egrets, as well as the young gator, were incredulous. But the egret who greeted the Sun staunchly began a courtship. She wasn’t interested in the lovely flight displays, so he gave them up as a lost cause. Instead, he skipped ahead to the hunting prowess displays. He brought her fine fat frogs and flashing, fleshy fish. And slowly he won her heart…or so he though.
He would sit on her back and chat with her about the day, and feed her courting gift he brought her. And slowly, ever so slowly, she would chat back. He was a swift bird in all he did – flight, speaking, and courting. But here he tried to learn patience. She was only swift in the hunt, snapping her jaws shut with a massive CRUNCH when prey was close.
But she grew fond of him in her slow, cold gator way.
Finally the egret thought the time was right, and he began bringing nesting material for her approval. And the gator looked at him, and a slow cold tear welled up in her eye. “I can not care for you as you do for me” she said. “For my heart is as cold as my blood. I admit some affection, but…nothing more my friend.”
The egret was heartbroken, and he didn’t know what to do. His evening farewell, as well as the greeting the next day was nothing like the Sun had grown to expect, and she grew worried.
“What is wrong?” the Sun asked the egret who greeted her. He poured out the whole tale and the Sun did not laugh or smirk unlike some.
“I may have a solution” she said. And as the egret listened, she explained. “There is a draught I drink each morning. It enables me to warm the world. If you’d like, you may take one drop and give it to her. It should help.” The egret who greeted the Sun thanked her, but she gave him one final warning. “It is powerful, merely touch your beak to it and then give it to her. No more!”
The egret was going to do just what the Sun said, but as he approached the glowing liquid, instead of merely touching his beak to it, he plunged it deep within. He filled his beak and flew off to his love. There, he shared with her the Sun’s draught.
It took effect immediately. Her skin grew flushed and instead of the tough hide, scales began to appear. Each seemed to have the reflection of the sun on them. Nubs appeared on her back and they began to swell, finally bursting open and revealing damp new wings. They were red and yellow and all the colors the Sun shines on the clouds.
She moved more swiftly and looked on the face of the egret and, as her cold heart warmed, fell in love as well. Now they flew together and slowly but surely, the egret who greeted the Sun, began to forget his duties. He would greet the Sun late, or forget to completely. He would sometimes be too early in his farewell display, and the Sun would dash off, realizing only too late she deprived the land of some of her time.
Sun looked more closely at him, and saw that his beak had grown entirely yellow, indicating how much of the draught he had taken. She grew angry at his ingratitude and failures and dismissed him and all egrets from her service. To this day, egrets although white otherwise, bear the yellow of the Sun’s draught on their beaks.
“I cannot trust one who so easily forsakes his duty!” she said. And the egret who had greeted the Sun was ashamed and flew away, never to be seen again.
In her anger, the egret’s mate roared her challenge at the Sun and swore to find a way to end her once and for all. Luckily for us, so far she has failed, but sometimes we see her engage in battle and darken the Sun for a time. But that’s a tale for another time. And to this day, gators everywhere allow egrets to rest on their backs, in memory of the egret who greeted the sun and his love, the first dragon.
The Egret Who Greeted the Sun
The egret, snowy white bird that it is, once had an important duty. It was the bird who flew to greet the Sun as she rose and smiled down on the land.
And for a time, a long time, the Egret did his job well. Each morning, he would rise into the air and with a showy display wake and greet the Sun. The rest of the day was his, to do what he pleased. As evening approached, he would fly again to bid her farewell.
At one point, the egret who greeted the Sun lived near a swamp, as egrets often do. He would often hunt there for the tasty prey egrets like. One day, as he was hunting, he spied what looked like a floating log, but the Sun shone off of what appeared to be an eye! He drew closer and lo and behold, he saw a lovely young gator.
The egret, there and then, fell in love. Needless to say, the other egrets, as well as the young gator, were incredulous. But the egret who greeted the Sun staunchly began a courtship. She wasn’t interested in the lovely flight displays, so he gave them up as a lost cause. Instead, he skipped ahead to the hunting prowess displays. He brought her fine fat frogs and flashing, fleshy fish. And slowly he won her heart…or so he though.
He would sit on her back and chat with her about the day, and feed her courting gift he brought her. And slowly, ever so slowly, she would chat back. He was a swift bird in all he did – flight, speaking, and courting. But here he tried to learn patience. She was only swift in the hunt, snapping her jaws shut with a massive CRUNCH when prey was close.
But she grew fond of him in her slow, cold gator way.
Finally the egret thought the time was right, and he began bringing nesting material for her approval. And the gator looked at him, and a slow cold tear welled up in her eye. “I can not care for you as you do for me” she said. “For my heart is as cold as my blood. I admit some affection, but…nothing more my friend.”
The egret was heartbroken, and he didn’t know what to do. His evening farewell, as well as the greeting the next day was nothing like the Sun had grown to expect, and she grew worried.
“What is wrong?” the Sun asked the egret who greeted her. He poured out the whole tale and the Sun did not laugh or smirk unlike some.
“I may have a solution” she said. And as the egret listened, she explained. “There is a draught I drink each morning. It enables me to warm the world. If you’d like, you may take one drop and give it to her. It should help.” The egret who greeted the Sun thanked her, but she gave him one final warning. “It is powerful, merely touch your beak to it and then give it to her. No more!”
The egret was going to do just what the Sun said, but as he approached the glowing liquid, instead of merely touching his beak to it, he plunged it deep within. He filled his beak and flew off to his love. There, he shared with her the Sun’s draught.
It took effect immediately. Her skin grew flushed and instead of the tough hide, scales began to appear. Each seemed to have the reflection of the sun on them. Nubs appeared on her back and they began to swell, finally bursting open and revealing damp new wings. They were red and yellow and all the colors the Sun shines on the clouds.
She moved more swiftly and looked on the face of the egret and, as her cold heart warmed, fell in love as well. Now they flew together and slowly but surely, the egret who greeted the Sun, began to forget his duties. He would greet the Sun late, or forget to completely. He would sometimes be too early in his farewell display, and the Sun would dash off, realizing only too late she deprived the land of some of her time.
Sun looked more closely at him, and saw that his beak had grown entirely yellow, indicating how much of the draught he had taken. She grew angry at his ingratitude and failures and dismissed him and all egrets from her service. To this day, egrets although white otherwise, bear the yellow of the Sun’s draught on their beaks.
“I cannot trust one who so easily forsakes his duty!” she said. And the egret who had greeted the Sun was ashamed and flew away, never to be seen again.
In her anger, the egret’s mate roared her challenge at the Sun and swore to find a way to end her once and for all. Luckily for us, so far she has failed, but sometimes we see her engage in battle and darken the Sun for a time. But that’s a tale for another time. And to this day, gators everywhere allow egrets to rest on their backs, in memory of the egret who greeted the sun and his love, the first dragon.
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Another tale told recently in the Dundee Inn
This is a tale of the elemental spirit. It sounds strange, for we do not view them often as thinking beings with wills and powers outside of the weakened forms we see in rain forest or down in the fissure. To those who dwell far away from here and the gods we know, they are more, much more. And they tell stories of them.
Once, long ago, no one knew what tears were or shed them. It’s not that all were happy, but rather that folks didn’t know how to cry. When they felt sorrow, it lodged like a hard lump of iron in the throat and stomach, going nowhere but felt none the less. After a time, it is said, it would fill them up and they’d strangle in the silence of their sorrow.
And the elements saw this and they wondered. This was something new to them. Although others could feel sorrow, only humans had no way to express it. Dogs could howl, birds screech, even gators could shed tears. But humans had nothing.
One day, a woman who had lost her child felt the iron lump forming…and she knew what would happen next. But she was a mother, and did not wish to leave her surviving children. She spoke to a seer, a dreamer of true dreams, and asked him what to do. He told her to seek the elemental spirits and talk with them. “One of them can help you.”
So she left her children in the care of her sister and set off. It was a long, arduous journey but at last she came to the home of the elements and spoke to them of the problem…not just hers, but of all humans; for that is what mothers do, they want to solve others problems as well as their own.
Fire shrugged and said “let them burn it away or keep it. They mean nothing to me.”
Earth was concerned, since so many were ending, but in its slow, ponderous way could do nothing.
And air? Air was too busy going here and there to pay attention. And even if it did pay attention, Air couldn’t stay focused long enough to care. Not that there are who are like that, not at all!
Water was silent as it watched, but no one knew what currents were flowing underneath.
The woman crossed her arms stubbornly and looked at them all. “I was told one of you could help, and I’m not leaving until you do!”
Fire looked at her and hissed with amusement “Come to one of my volcanoes and I’ll see you’re bothered no more! Then again, neither will I be”
She declined of course.
Air stopped whirling and listened a moment “oh, throw yourself off a cliff. I’ll fix the problem…umm…if I remember that is.”
She once again declined.
Earth regarded her sadly and offered to shelter her and all other humans when they died. She thanked him and accepted the offer, but turned to water, hoping for more.
Water nodded, having listened in its fathomless silence, and then told her to come to its home. So she traveled to the shores of the sea. Once there, it bade her to walk into it. “I will support you” it promised. So she did. As she entered the sea, Water sought the leaden lump and with its gentle yet inexorable nature washed it away. And as the lump softened, it broke apart, and water withdrew itself through her eyes, the windows on the world.
And she cried.
This gift of water was passed on through the generations, but whether it meant to or not, water passed on a few others as well. We have water’s fast changing nature as well; some of us more than others. So we switch between anger, sorry, happiness and joy as easily as the tides sometimes. And some have dark currents running deep, like the sea.
While Earth can bear us up and does so to this day, Water alone was yielding enough to allow us to express sorrow and joy. And that’s why tears and laughter can so easily be interchanged.
This is a tale of the elemental spirit. It sounds strange, for we do not view them often as thinking beings with wills and powers outside of the weakened forms we see in rain forest or down in the fissure. To those who dwell far away from here and the gods we know, they are more, much more. And they tell stories of them.
Once, long ago, no one knew what tears were or shed them. It’s not that all were happy, but rather that folks didn’t know how to cry. When they felt sorrow, it lodged like a hard lump of iron in the throat and stomach, going nowhere but felt none the less. After a time, it is said, it would fill them up and they’d strangle in the silence of their sorrow.
And the elements saw this and they wondered. This was something new to them. Although others could feel sorrow, only humans had no way to express it. Dogs could howl, birds screech, even gators could shed tears. But humans had nothing.
One day, a woman who had lost her child felt the iron lump forming…and she knew what would happen next. But she was a mother, and did not wish to leave her surviving children. She spoke to a seer, a dreamer of true dreams, and asked him what to do. He told her to seek the elemental spirits and talk with them. “One of them can help you.”
So she left her children in the care of her sister and set off. It was a long, arduous journey but at last she came to the home of the elements and spoke to them of the problem…not just hers, but of all humans; for that is what mothers do, they want to solve others problems as well as their own.
Fire shrugged and said “let them burn it away or keep it. They mean nothing to me.”
Earth was concerned, since so many were ending, but in its slow, ponderous way could do nothing.
And air? Air was too busy going here and there to pay attention. And even if it did pay attention, Air couldn’t stay focused long enough to care. Not that there are who are like that, not at all!
Water was silent as it watched, but no one knew what currents were flowing underneath.
The woman crossed her arms stubbornly and looked at them all. “I was told one of you could help, and I’m not leaving until you do!”
Fire looked at her and hissed with amusement “Come to one of my volcanoes and I’ll see you’re bothered no more! Then again, neither will I be”
She declined of course.
Air stopped whirling and listened a moment “oh, throw yourself off a cliff. I’ll fix the problem…umm…if I remember that is.”
She once again declined.
Earth regarded her sadly and offered to shelter her and all other humans when they died. She thanked him and accepted the offer, but turned to water, hoping for more.
Water nodded, having listened in its fathomless silence, and then told her to come to its home. So she traveled to the shores of the sea. Once there, it bade her to walk into it. “I will support you” it promised. So she did. As she entered the sea, Water sought the leaden lump and with its gentle yet inexorable nature washed it away. And as the lump softened, it broke apart, and water withdrew itself through her eyes, the windows on the world.
And she cried.
This gift of water was passed on through the generations, but whether it meant to or not, water passed on a few others as well. We have water’s fast changing nature as well; some of us more than others. So we switch between anger, sorry, happiness and joy as easily as the tides sometimes. And some have dark currents running deep, like the sea.
While Earth can bear us up and does so to this day, Water alone was yielding enough to allow us to express sorrow and joy. And that’s why tears and laughter can so easily be interchanged.
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:41 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Told recently in Cerbies; inspired by Korrith's song composition skills. Who knows, one of these days she might tell the rest of it!
Once there was a singer whose voice was so good, it traveled further then he knew. It traveled all the way across the sea…and into it. A sea dweller woman heard it and knew she had to find the source of the song, for it was like nothing she had ever heard.
She set out from her cold, dark dwelling place and began to swim across the sea, always listening, always trying to draw closer.
So she swam, drawing ever closer to the source of the voice; the ocean floor grew closer, and at times she nearly scraped the bottom, but the voice promised such things as she'd never seen trees, grass, birds so close you could touch them...not like the birds of the sea so far out of reach. And it promised warmth, not the cold scales of the fish to be touched in passing, but warmth, and fur and....music. So she continued on her weary way.
Now the singer knew not what he had called, for he didn't know the power of his voice and its reach. But call he had, a longing for things he didn't know was contained in his every word and verse.
And unknowing the two drew closer.
One day he was standing by the shore, singing as he collected shells, wondering what once used them as a home. The sea dweller woman, battered by the bottom and tossed by the waves drew closer, finally caught sight of him, and finally sang back. She sang a song of the sea - changing and remote, deep and cold. And the singer heard the words for the first time – they drew him.
He stepped into the sea, and she drew herself up on the shore.
Each was attracted by what they heard in the other's song; each by what they didn't know but heard. But each was too distant from the other’s world - he could not stay in the sea, nor she on the land.
But, now they meet at tide turn; meeting only to part. Their brief visits to each other's worlds is enough…and they always have their songs.
Once there was a singer whose voice was so good, it traveled further then he knew. It traveled all the way across the sea…and into it. A sea dweller woman heard it and knew she had to find the source of the song, for it was like nothing she had ever heard.
She set out from her cold, dark dwelling place and began to swim across the sea, always listening, always trying to draw closer.
So she swam, drawing ever closer to the source of the voice; the ocean floor grew closer, and at times she nearly scraped the bottom, but the voice promised such things as she'd never seen trees, grass, birds so close you could touch them...not like the birds of the sea so far out of reach. And it promised warmth, not the cold scales of the fish to be touched in passing, but warmth, and fur and....music. So she continued on her weary way.
Now the singer knew not what he had called, for he didn't know the power of his voice and its reach. But call he had, a longing for things he didn't know was contained in his every word and verse.
And unknowing the two drew closer.
One day he was standing by the shore, singing as he collected shells, wondering what once used them as a home. The sea dweller woman, battered by the bottom and tossed by the waves drew closer, finally caught sight of him, and finally sang back. She sang a song of the sea - changing and remote, deep and cold. And the singer heard the words for the first time – they drew him.
He stepped into the sea, and she drew herself up on the shore.
Each was attracted by what they heard in the other's song; each by what they didn't know but heard. But each was too distant from the other’s world - he could not stay in the sea, nor she on the land.
But, now they meet at tide turn; meeting only to part. Their brief visits to each other's worlds is enough…and they always have their songs.
This was recently told in Cerbies based on a tossed off comment about Troll Pottery a few days earlier.
Troll Pottery
Most of us have seen the trolls south of Waslau or the ones in the mountains. We think of them as huge ungainly creatures able to aim powerful blows but not much else. And for the most part that is true. For trolls reward strength and little else. When trolls are born in litters, or so I hear, only the strongest survive.
The others are killed by their own siblings in their quest to get the most food possible. For something else true about trolls is that they are always hungry. Even after a huge meal, they feel the pangs of an empty stomach. Or , rather they feel the pangs of something missing in their lives though they don’t know what.
Well once, a pregnant troll delivered a litter but only one was born alive. This one grew without the need to fight his siblings for survival; it was quite the change. Trolls, as I’m told, bring a certain amount to their den and it’s more then enough to feed one lone troll kit. So this one grew HUGE!
He was even larger then the normal troll. And he was so big, he easily had the other trolls giving him food as bribes so he’d not hurt them And for the first time ever, a troll had time to think. And to wonder. And to ponder WHY he felt something missing.
He crept close to the human settlement to see what they had. And he was quiet, oh so quiet for something his size, and no one saw him. As he wandered the settlement night after night, one hut caught his eye. It was on the outskirts of the village and pale brown and white things were piled up outside. He was curious so he picked one up. It crumbled in his hands. More gently, he picked up another.
He’d never seen a bowl before. It fascinated him, and for once…the hunger within him stilled…just for a moment, but it stilled. He hid nearby and waited for day. Now, you may find that incredible, that something that large could hide so well, but he did.
And he saw the potter, for that was who lived in the hut come out the next day and begin cleaning the clay in preparation to work it into pottery. Cleaning clay takes a while. You want to get out the stones and all, so you mix up slurry of clay and water and keep pouring it through smaller and smaller mesh. But the troll stayed and watched.
He left only at night to get some food, but for once, hunger didn’t bother him. And the times he didn’t leave, and no one was around, he tried sifting his own clay, carefully trying to return things just the way they were before.
He managed to mostly put thing back, but the potter was a bit confused by the way things seemed to shift about. But he shrugged and went about his work. Finally, the clay was clean enough to work with, and the troll watched the potter carefully begin working the clay.
That night he tried to duplicate what he saw, but he failed…miserably. And for the first time he broke his careful silence with a howl so loud, it was heard echoing off the nearby mountains. Everyone shivered in their beds, or under them. And no one went out.
But the next morning, the potter found things moved about his wheel and a load of clean clay that he knew he hadn’t sifted. And he thought. Finally, speaking out loud, he took up some clay and began making a long snakelike piece out of it. “This is the way to make a beginning bowl” he said as he carefully coiled it into a simple coil pot.
“Now I leave it out to harden, and then I can fire it” The troll listened fascinated. And that night, he tried making a coil pot like the ones the potter made during the day. And the next morning, the potter said nothing as he saw the stack of coil pots and there was an extra one there.
For a few days he made coil pots, then thumb bowls, formed using one’s thumb as the starting point, and again, he never said anything about the extra bowls that showed up. Each day he talked about what he was doing. And the troll learned. And when the firing happened, and a few bowls broke, as they often do, the potter spoke of why.
After a while, the potter began working on his wheel again, and explaining what he did. He said how difficult it was and how long it took him. And slowly, the troll learned.
When the potter went out to cut wood for the kiln, four times as much appeared the next morning, for the troll had been busy. And when he sifted clay, more clean clay would appear over the next few days.
So this went of quite some time. And the potter became known for both the delicate small pieces he did and the larger, more sturdy ones. For the troll never did get the hang of tiny.
Finally, the potter died, as do all, and the village folk were confused by his will, which left the hut and the kiln to the 'pot ghost' and paid a boy to take care of things. But they honored it, and they knew to stay away in the evening and night when the 'pot ghost' did his work. For that had been laid out in the will as well.
The boy took care of firing the pots and taking them in and out of the kiln. And in time, as he grew, he took care of selling them as well. Until one day, no more pots appeared. And although no one knew why, to this day, if you go to that village, you’ll see the remains of an old kiln that no one will go near.
That is the tale of Troll pottery. There's never been a troll since who wanted to learn how to still the hunger in his belly. The hunger that only art can still.
And that is the tale as my father told it.
Troll Pottery
Most of us have seen the trolls south of Waslau or the ones in the mountains. We think of them as huge ungainly creatures able to aim powerful blows but not much else. And for the most part that is true. For trolls reward strength and little else. When trolls are born in litters, or so I hear, only the strongest survive.
The others are killed by their own siblings in their quest to get the most food possible. For something else true about trolls is that they are always hungry. Even after a huge meal, they feel the pangs of an empty stomach. Or , rather they feel the pangs of something missing in their lives though they don’t know what.
Well once, a pregnant troll delivered a litter but only one was born alive. This one grew without the need to fight his siblings for survival; it was quite the change. Trolls, as I’m told, bring a certain amount to their den and it’s more then enough to feed one lone troll kit. So this one grew HUGE!
He was even larger then the normal troll. And he was so big, he easily had the other trolls giving him food as bribes so he’d not hurt them And for the first time ever, a troll had time to think. And to wonder. And to ponder WHY he felt something missing.
He crept close to the human settlement to see what they had. And he was quiet, oh so quiet for something his size, and no one saw him. As he wandered the settlement night after night, one hut caught his eye. It was on the outskirts of the village and pale brown and white things were piled up outside. He was curious so he picked one up. It crumbled in his hands. More gently, he picked up another.
He’d never seen a bowl before. It fascinated him, and for once…the hunger within him stilled…just for a moment, but it stilled. He hid nearby and waited for day. Now, you may find that incredible, that something that large could hide so well, but he did.
And he saw the potter, for that was who lived in the hut come out the next day and begin cleaning the clay in preparation to work it into pottery. Cleaning clay takes a while. You want to get out the stones and all, so you mix up slurry of clay and water and keep pouring it through smaller and smaller mesh. But the troll stayed and watched.
He left only at night to get some food, but for once, hunger didn’t bother him. And the times he didn’t leave, and no one was around, he tried sifting his own clay, carefully trying to return things just the way they were before.
He managed to mostly put thing back, but the potter was a bit confused by the way things seemed to shift about. But he shrugged and went about his work. Finally, the clay was clean enough to work with, and the troll watched the potter carefully begin working the clay.
That night he tried to duplicate what he saw, but he failed…miserably. And for the first time he broke his careful silence with a howl so loud, it was heard echoing off the nearby mountains. Everyone shivered in their beds, or under them. And no one went out.
But the next morning, the potter found things moved about his wheel and a load of clean clay that he knew he hadn’t sifted. And he thought. Finally, speaking out loud, he took up some clay and began making a long snakelike piece out of it. “This is the way to make a beginning bowl” he said as he carefully coiled it into a simple coil pot.
“Now I leave it out to harden, and then I can fire it” The troll listened fascinated. And that night, he tried making a coil pot like the ones the potter made during the day. And the next morning, the potter said nothing as he saw the stack of coil pots and there was an extra one there.
For a few days he made coil pots, then thumb bowls, formed using one’s thumb as the starting point, and again, he never said anything about the extra bowls that showed up. Each day he talked about what he was doing. And the troll learned. And when the firing happened, and a few bowls broke, as they often do, the potter spoke of why.
After a while, the potter began working on his wheel again, and explaining what he did. He said how difficult it was and how long it took him. And slowly, the troll learned.
When the potter went out to cut wood for the kiln, four times as much appeared the next morning, for the troll had been busy. And when he sifted clay, more clean clay would appear over the next few days.
So this went of quite some time. And the potter became known for both the delicate small pieces he did and the larger, more sturdy ones. For the troll never did get the hang of tiny.
Finally, the potter died, as do all, and the village folk were confused by his will, which left the hut and the kiln to the 'pot ghost' and paid a boy to take care of things. But they honored it, and they knew to stay away in the evening and night when the 'pot ghost' did his work. For that had been laid out in the will as well.
The boy took care of firing the pots and taking them in and out of the kiln. And in time, as he grew, he took care of selling them as well. Until one day, no more pots appeared. And although no one knew why, to this day, if you go to that village, you’ll see the remains of an old kiln that no one will go near.
That is the tale of Troll pottery. There's never been a troll since who wanted to learn how to still the hunger in his belly. The hunger that only art can still.
And that is the tale as my father told it.
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
A story recently told in Cerbies, inspired by reading Jael Bletsung's profile and its description of her hands.
Another tale that Az 'read' in her youth.
Rat's Hands
Many say hands are what set us apart. Our ability to handle and make things. But it was not always the case. Once many creatures had hands and thumbs, not just the paws and claws they have now.
Rat was one such a creature. Rat was very proud of his hands. He and his people used them to build many fine things. They had wonderful homes and the wood was carved with fine work indeed. They could weave and paint and indulge in many artistic ventures.
But Rat grew greedy and began thinking he was better then all the other animals about. He would put on airs and demand that the other animals pay him when he used his hands to help them. Need something pulled from your paw? Rat would do it, for a price. Have a task needing hands? Rat would take care of it, if you would pay him.
Soon the other animals grew tired of this and called out to the spirits for help. One finally heard them and decided to investigate. It took the form of a cat with terribly knotted fur.
Only one with hands could fix this through patiently untangling and combing it. The cat-disguised spirit came to the rat and begged. “Please, my fur is so tangled I can’t run well, would you help me?”
Rat sneered at the cat and said “bring me something I want and I’ll help you, but not before then.”
The Cat begged some more, explaining that it couldn’t hunt or survive this way, but the Rat refused. Finally, growing tired of this, the spirit disguised as a cat swallowed the Rat whole. It was so disgusted that it cursed his people to have paws and not hands.
“If you will not help others, this will be taken from you” the Spirit said. And ever since then, although a rat’s paws may LOOK close to hands, they no longer have them.
But to this day, rats remember that they could carve and shape things and you find them gnawing, trying to regain that ability through using their teeth. They hate and fear the cat, remembering that it was a spirit in
that form who tested them and found them lacking.
And the other creatures that once had hands? Well, those are tales for another time.
Another tale that Az 'read' in her youth.
Rat's Hands
Many say hands are what set us apart. Our ability to handle and make things. But it was not always the case. Once many creatures had hands and thumbs, not just the paws and claws they have now.
Rat was one such a creature. Rat was very proud of his hands. He and his people used them to build many fine things. They had wonderful homes and the wood was carved with fine work indeed. They could weave and paint and indulge in many artistic ventures.
But Rat grew greedy and began thinking he was better then all the other animals about. He would put on airs and demand that the other animals pay him when he used his hands to help them. Need something pulled from your paw? Rat would do it, for a price. Have a task needing hands? Rat would take care of it, if you would pay him.
Soon the other animals grew tired of this and called out to the spirits for help. One finally heard them and decided to investigate. It took the form of a cat with terribly knotted fur.
Only one with hands could fix this through patiently untangling and combing it. The cat-disguised spirit came to the rat and begged. “Please, my fur is so tangled I can’t run well, would you help me?”
Rat sneered at the cat and said “bring me something I want and I’ll help you, but not before then.”
The Cat begged some more, explaining that it couldn’t hunt or survive this way, but the Rat refused. Finally, growing tired of this, the spirit disguised as a cat swallowed the Rat whole. It was so disgusted that it cursed his people to have paws and not hands.
“If you will not help others, this will be taken from you” the Spirit said. And ever since then, although a rat’s paws may LOOK close to hands, they no longer have them.
But to this day, rats remember that they could carve and shape things and you find them gnawing, trying to regain that ability through using their teeth. They hate and fear the cat, remembering that it was a spirit in
that form who tested them and found them lacking.
And the other creatures that once had hands? Well, those are tales for another time.
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:43 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Told in the Dundee Inn after The Viscontessa Miranda requested to be amused.
The Singing Hedgehog: A tale of dark humor
There was once a hedgehog who dreamt of being able to sing. Night and day he would practice His mother would listen and shake her head, but never chide his attempts, for that’s what mothers do….encourage. But he was wretched at it, for Hedgehogs have no singing voices
The youngster grew thinking he could sing, and at first he couldn’t. However, in time, he could croak out some tunes. They were terribly done for a singer, but well done for a hedgehog.
One day he went out to the woods, for the first time on his own and commenced to sing. Birds gathered around jeering at his song, for it was rather awful, unless you compared it to the Vulture's crooning. The hedgehog went home bewildered and upset - not understanding why they laughed at him
His mother attempted to soothe him and tell him that they were jealous of him.
“But mother,” he said. “They told me I can’t sing. What are they jealous of?”
“That you tried. That you did something we cannot normally do, while they only do what they can.” And with that she smiled and settled him down to sleep.
For many times, to attempt something you can’t naturally do takes more bravery and skill then something that comes easily. Of course, we’d rather hear the bird song, which comes lightly to it, then the trained hedgehog’s song. The first is so much better.
And that’s how we are, taking ease over practice...and praising those that need not strive at their tasks.
The Singing Hedgehog: A tale of dark humor
There was once a hedgehog who dreamt of being able to sing. Night and day he would practice His mother would listen and shake her head, but never chide his attempts, for that’s what mothers do….encourage. But he was wretched at it, for Hedgehogs have no singing voices
The youngster grew thinking he could sing, and at first he couldn’t. However, in time, he could croak out some tunes. They were terribly done for a singer, but well done for a hedgehog.
One day he went out to the woods, for the first time on his own and commenced to sing. Birds gathered around jeering at his song, for it was rather awful, unless you compared it to the Vulture's crooning. The hedgehog went home bewildered and upset - not understanding why they laughed at him
His mother attempted to soothe him and tell him that they were jealous of him.
“But mother,” he said. “They told me I can’t sing. What are they jealous of?”
“That you tried. That you did something we cannot normally do, while they only do what they can.” And with that she smiled and settled him down to sleep.
For many times, to attempt something you can’t naturally do takes more bravery and skill then something that comes easily. Of course, we’d rather hear the bird song, which comes lightly to it, then the trained hedgehog’s song. The first is so much better.
And that’s how we are, taking ease over practice...and praising those that need not strive at their tasks.
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
This tale was recently told in the Dundee inn and came about about after Wallace recited a poem with a line mentioning reflections in the water.
I'm not sure, but there may be an African tale about a trickster spirit with a similar coat.
Azure once again 'remembered' this tale from one of her mother's scrolls.
A Tale of Two Friends
Once there were two friends. They had been friends from childhood and looking at one was like looking at the other reflected in a lake. They were so close that when both were old enough to leave their parents’ homes, they bought land across the road from each other and built their houses right on the edge of the road, facing each other.
In the evening, they would each sit on the porch and talk to the other about their day. When they were ready to marry, they married sisters so on festival days they were always at the same gatherings. And their children ran in and out of each other’s house so they were one large two-dwelling family.
It seemed theirs was a bond of friendship never to be strained or ruined as they always seemed to agree on things. However, one day a spirit decided to test this friendship and play a trick on them. It manifested in the form of a man and put on a fine, beautiful coat.
On one side, the coat was a rich, deep blue and embroidered wonderfully well. On the other side, it was a bright cheerful orange, with mirror bits stitched in to gaily wink in the sun. The spirit walked down the road between the two friends' houses and made enough noise to make certain that both were aware of it.
At the end of the day, the friends sat on their porches to talk over the day as was their wont. They both brought up the man. "What a lovely blue coat he had" said one.
"Oh no” said the other, “it was a grand orange, with sparkles and shines!"
They fell to arguing like they never had before. It got louder and louder and finally, they scuffled! Like children in the dirt!
As they were rolling in the dirt, the spirit appeared in front of them with a clap of thunder It was angered and demanded to know what was going on. The two men both started describing what they saw and how the other wouldn't believe them, no matter what they said. It looked like they might start to fight again.
Finally the spirit nodded and manifested the coat it had worn before and said, “Both of you were right, and both were wrong.” Well, the two friends both yelled at the spirit for tricking them
The Spirit laughed at them both. "I did not make you fight and break a friendship" it said. "You did that on your own. For assuming that what you see is what all should see."
The friends looked at each other ashamed, and nodded. The spirit was right. One may see different things from another but it doesn't make the other wrong. They begged forgiveness of each other and of the spirit.
The spirit nodded its forgiveness and tugged on the coat until it split in two. One blue coat and one orange coat were left behind. It gave them to the two friends "Remember,” the spirit said, "Even lake reflections look different depending on the angle." It then vanished.
It is said, that on fine days the two friends would wear their coats as they chatted with each other on their porches. And, some days...they'd swap them!
I'm not sure, but there may be an African tale about a trickster spirit with a similar coat.
Azure once again 'remembered' this tale from one of her mother's scrolls.
A Tale of Two Friends
Once there were two friends. They had been friends from childhood and looking at one was like looking at the other reflected in a lake. They were so close that when both were old enough to leave their parents’ homes, they bought land across the road from each other and built their houses right on the edge of the road, facing each other.
In the evening, they would each sit on the porch and talk to the other about their day. When they were ready to marry, they married sisters so on festival days they were always at the same gatherings. And their children ran in and out of each other’s house so they were one large two-dwelling family.
It seemed theirs was a bond of friendship never to be strained or ruined as they always seemed to agree on things. However, one day a spirit decided to test this friendship and play a trick on them. It manifested in the form of a man and put on a fine, beautiful coat.
On one side, the coat was a rich, deep blue and embroidered wonderfully well. On the other side, it was a bright cheerful orange, with mirror bits stitched in to gaily wink in the sun. The spirit walked down the road between the two friends' houses and made enough noise to make certain that both were aware of it.
At the end of the day, the friends sat on their porches to talk over the day as was their wont. They both brought up the man. "What a lovely blue coat he had" said one.
"Oh no” said the other, “it was a grand orange, with sparkles and shines!"
They fell to arguing like they never had before. It got louder and louder and finally, they scuffled! Like children in the dirt!
As they were rolling in the dirt, the spirit appeared in front of them with a clap of thunder It was angered and demanded to know what was going on. The two men both started describing what they saw and how the other wouldn't believe them, no matter what they said. It looked like they might start to fight again.
Finally the spirit nodded and manifested the coat it had worn before and said, “Both of you were right, and both were wrong.” Well, the two friends both yelled at the spirit for tricking them
The Spirit laughed at them both. "I did not make you fight and break a friendship" it said. "You did that on your own. For assuming that what you see is what all should see."
The friends looked at each other ashamed, and nodded. The spirit was right. One may see different things from another but it doesn't make the other wrong. They begged forgiveness of each other and of the spirit.
The spirit nodded its forgiveness and tugged on the coat until it split in two. One blue coat and one orange coat were left behind. It gave them to the two friends "Remember,” the spirit said, "Even lake reflections look different depending on the angle." It then vanished.
It is said, that on fine days the two friends would wear their coats as they chatted with each other on their porches. And, some days...they'd swap them!
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:45 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Finally finished in Cerbies, this had been started some time ago but stopped due to a spate of raids. This story was originally written for the OSW legend contest.
Once long ago, there was a lighthouse that stood tall and proud, enabling storm-tossed ships to easily avoid the treacherous rocks. Both the well polished bell and the light would tell travelers of the nearby dangers.
The lighthouse itself was a marvel. Built of pale stone, it towered about the surrounding area. Its door was painted a merry blue, and sight of it welcomed on-foot visitors. Even if the room inside were small, to men and women accustomed to the close quarters of a sailing vessel, it was roomy enough.
There were storage rooms containing dry, fresh clothing for any unlucky enough to be caught short; food supplies both for the inhabitants of the lighthouse and frequent visitors; and fishing tackle for the times people just wanted to drop a line into the fish-filled sea. The kitchen, though small, was always ready to fix meals, and all would recite the Sailors Grace before eating.
The lighthouse keeper, a retired captain, was proud of his task, and of his lighthouse. He swore mighty oaths by the Sea Herself that he would tend to his duties in storms and night. And the gods heard and nodded in approval.
On the worst nights, he would climb to the very top and tend the fires himself. During the day he would lovingly polish the reflecting mirror and windows, and would always spare time for the bell with its deep, warning toll. His warm cloak was wrapped about his form, keeping him cozy and safe even in the worst weather.
Then came the days, the Age cracked, and foulness beset the land. Demons roamed freely, terrorizing all. Through it all, the lighthouse keeper stood fast. His helpers begged that he would flee with them, but he would not. “I made a vow” he said as he continued his duties. “Ships and their crews need me.”
His men fled, but he did not.
The Darkness crept nearer, but the light shining from the top of the tower, and the deep toll of the bell, kept the darkness at bay. The lighthouse stood as a bastion of hope. And the Darkness would not have it. Slowly the waters around it were poisoned. Rats and gulls who fed nearby were twisted and made dark and demonic. Jellyfish increased in size and hazard. And the crews of the dead awoke.
And still the lighthouse keeper stood fast. He barred the door, and survived on the stocks in the storeroom. He carved in his free time and continued building models of the ships he had sailed on in his youth.
And the Darkness lapped at the very base of the tower - and the keeper stood fast.
Finally, annoyed at the wasted time, and the hope the mere sight of the lighthouse spread, the Demon Lord himself came to the door. The barred door broke asunder at his presence, and cloaking himself in a fairer form he entered. He climbed the stairs, sneering at what he saw, and the very stones softened and ran under his dark tread.
He came to the keeper and in a soft voice and honeyed words he entreated the keeper to lay down his oath burden. He would rather turn someone from their oath, and leave one more broken word in the world, then merely destroy. For it harms the world more and adds to the burden of grief, darkness, and evil. But keeper, seeing beneath the fair form, just as he knew the sea hid many guises, refused.
Rising up, the Demon Lord cast off his fair form and towered over the keeper. “You are a bothersome wretch, and killing you would be too quick. Instead, since you care about this lighthouse so much, let it be your eternal damnation!” He struck the window lightly and it burst asunder. And he turned his terrible gaze on the keeper, who though he wished to stand firm, cowered and cried out.
But it was to no avail, for at this moment, the Demon Lord was too strong.
The keeper was cursed to stay in his lighthouse, and instead of aiding travelers, he now attacks them. The foul, twisted vermin and the restless dead have joined him.
But it is said; that when the demons are driven back and peace restored, the Sea will rise up and reclaim what is hers – the faithful lighthouse keeper’s soul
edited to fix problems after the board changeover
Once long ago, there was a lighthouse that stood tall and proud, enabling storm-tossed ships to easily avoid the treacherous rocks. Both the well polished bell and the light would tell travelers of the nearby dangers.
The lighthouse itself was a marvel. Built of pale stone, it towered about the surrounding area. Its door was painted a merry blue, and sight of it welcomed on-foot visitors. Even if the room inside were small, to men and women accustomed to the close quarters of a sailing vessel, it was roomy enough.
There were storage rooms containing dry, fresh clothing for any unlucky enough to be caught short; food supplies both for the inhabitants of the lighthouse and frequent visitors; and fishing tackle for the times people just wanted to drop a line into the fish-filled sea. The kitchen, though small, was always ready to fix meals, and all would recite the Sailors Grace before eating.
The lighthouse keeper, a retired captain, was proud of his task, and of his lighthouse. He swore mighty oaths by the Sea Herself that he would tend to his duties in storms and night. And the gods heard and nodded in approval.
On the worst nights, he would climb to the very top and tend the fires himself. During the day he would lovingly polish the reflecting mirror and windows, and would always spare time for the bell with its deep, warning toll. His warm cloak was wrapped about his form, keeping him cozy and safe even in the worst weather.
Then came the days, the Age cracked, and foulness beset the land. Demons roamed freely, terrorizing all. Through it all, the lighthouse keeper stood fast. His helpers begged that he would flee with them, but he would not. “I made a vow” he said as he continued his duties. “Ships and their crews need me.”
His men fled, but he did not.
The Darkness crept nearer, but the light shining from the top of the tower, and the deep toll of the bell, kept the darkness at bay. The lighthouse stood as a bastion of hope. And the Darkness would not have it. Slowly the waters around it were poisoned. Rats and gulls who fed nearby were twisted and made dark and demonic. Jellyfish increased in size and hazard. And the crews of the dead awoke.
And still the lighthouse keeper stood fast. He barred the door, and survived on the stocks in the storeroom. He carved in his free time and continued building models of the ships he had sailed on in his youth.
And the Darkness lapped at the very base of the tower - and the keeper stood fast.
Finally, annoyed at the wasted time, and the hope the mere sight of the lighthouse spread, the Demon Lord himself came to the door. The barred door broke asunder at his presence, and cloaking himself in a fairer form he entered. He climbed the stairs, sneering at what he saw, and the very stones softened and ran under his dark tread.
He came to the keeper and in a soft voice and honeyed words he entreated the keeper to lay down his oath burden. He would rather turn someone from their oath, and leave one more broken word in the world, then merely destroy. For it harms the world more and adds to the burden of grief, darkness, and evil. But keeper, seeing beneath the fair form, just as he knew the sea hid many guises, refused.
Rising up, the Demon Lord cast off his fair form and towered over the keeper. “You are a bothersome wretch, and killing you would be too quick. Instead, since you care about this lighthouse so much, let it be your eternal damnation!” He struck the window lightly and it burst asunder. And he turned his terrible gaze on the keeper, who though he wished to stand firm, cowered and cried out.
But it was to no avail, for at this moment, the Demon Lord was too strong.
The keeper was cursed to stay in his lighthouse, and instead of aiding travelers, he now attacks them. The foul, twisted vermin and the restless dead have joined him.
But it is said; that when the demons are driven back and peace restored, the Sea will rise up and reclaim what is hers – the faithful lighthouse keeper’s soul
edited to fix problems after the board changeover
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 1:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Told in Cerbies after Aryana played and several danced a rather exhausting looking jig. This is another tale Az said she heard somewhere. I'm not sure of the influences of this one.
The Wind's Tale
The wind is a creature of a changeable nature. It looks as if it will go one way, when it decides to go another instead. It was not always like that though.
Once, folks would say ‘constant as the wind’ to show loyalty. But this changed one day and perhaps not for the reason you think.
The wind had many friends, and all knew when it would be by to visit. In the morning, the wind would blow by to see its friend the sun and to ruffle the feathers of the egret responsible for dancing the sun into the day. This was before the egret fell in love with who would become the dragon.
Later on, the wind would stop and dance in the forest, causing the leaves to dance a gavotte with it. And so the wind’s day continued. For a long time, this seemed to be the wind’s path. It was a constant friend whose comings and goings were known.
But such was not going to be the case forever. For people get jealous and envious of others for the oddest reasons and that is what happened.”
The wind’s friends began to bicker with each other over who the wind cared for the most.
The wind didn’t know what was going on at first. It only knew that some of its friends tried to have it linger or come early to visit and it grew confused. Finally, the old viper in the swamp told it what was going on, and the wind was horrified! It felt responsible for the fact its friends were quarreling.
It was determined to do something about it, no matter what the change did to it. So it stopped following its old patterns and refused to make new ones. First it does one thing, the next moment, something else.
Ever since then, the wind has behaved in a more random fashion, so no one can determine how long it spends anywhere.
At first the wind’s friends were shocked and upset by the change, but slowly they began to understand why it happened. And, far from expecting its visits any more, the wind’s friends enjoy the random chance that blows their friend their way.
edited to fix problems after the board change.
The Wind's Tale
The wind is a creature of a changeable nature. It looks as if it will go one way, when it decides to go another instead. It was not always like that though.
Once, folks would say ‘constant as the wind’ to show loyalty. But this changed one day and perhaps not for the reason you think.
The wind had many friends, and all knew when it would be by to visit. In the morning, the wind would blow by to see its friend the sun and to ruffle the feathers of the egret responsible for dancing the sun into the day. This was before the egret fell in love with who would become the dragon.
Later on, the wind would stop and dance in the forest, causing the leaves to dance a gavotte with it. And so the wind’s day continued. For a long time, this seemed to be the wind’s path. It was a constant friend whose comings and goings were known.
But such was not going to be the case forever. For people get jealous and envious of others for the oddest reasons and that is what happened.”
The wind’s friends began to bicker with each other over who the wind cared for the most.
The wind didn’t know what was going on at first. It only knew that some of its friends tried to have it linger or come early to visit and it grew confused. Finally, the old viper in the swamp told it what was going on, and the wind was horrified! It felt responsible for the fact its friends were quarreling.
It was determined to do something about it, no matter what the change did to it. So it stopped following its old patterns and refused to make new ones. First it does one thing, the next moment, something else.
Ever since then, the wind has behaved in a more random fashion, so no one can determine how long it spends anywhere.
At first the wind’s friends were shocked and upset by the change, but slowly they began to understand why it happened. And, far from expecting its visits any more, the wind’s friends enjoy the random chance that blows their friend their way.
edited to fix problems after the board change.
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 1:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.
A tale told last night at Alfin's suggestion (thanks for the topic!). Reconstructed and maybe improved a bit.
The Ice Drake
Once, long ago, there was a pale drake who roamed the lands. People lived in the dread of the time the sun would glint off her scales as she drew near to their farms and crops. She was a terrifying sight indeed. She was all the more terrifying for the fact that where she had been, nothing was left.
Her appetite was immense and all would be devoured in the face of her all-consuming hunger. Once she was sighted, folks would flee from her path - terrified they would be too slow and be eaten. She would eat anything. Grain and greenery, meat and men, all would vanish down her gullet.
Finally, a village she had passed near enough to devour half their fields and flocks gathered up their courage, and their remaining treasure, and went in search of an army to defeat her. After long travels, the village’s representatives found a small mercenary army. Now the village didn't have much, especially after the drakes visit, but the army agreed to work on what they called 'spec'. They foolishly thought that drakes, like dragons had treasure someone had been listening to too many tales. For what is treasure to one, might not be to another.
It is true the pale drake had a great treasure, but none but she thought it was so. The treasure she had, and the hunger she had were tied together for she held within her the last young of her species. In this case the female of the species was not only deadlier then the male, she was the last of her kind left…except for the possible future of her young.
The army followed the tracks of the drake as she went hither and yon finding sustenance not just for her, but for her young as well. For she knew they were all that was left of the pale drakes and she didn't want her race to end.
Finally, they found her trail, still a bit warm heading deep into a series of caves. And they followed. They didn't realize what else was in the cave, and they stirred up the leopards, hares, and demons that dwelled within as well. Most of the army can still be seen in that cave, frozen and still, and the survivors made a shrine to the fierce warriors there.
The pale drake bore her line...and they retreated further in the cave, leaving only a sentinel to stand watch and guard against the humans who might still come in search of treasure. Today, when we go there, sometimes we see the lone sentinel...and sometimes we kill it, bearing away what we see as its treasure that keeps it warm against the cold. But the true treasure, the drakes themselves, live where we do not go.
The Ice Drake
Once, long ago, there was a pale drake who roamed the lands. People lived in the dread of the time the sun would glint off her scales as she drew near to their farms and crops. She was a terrifying sight indeed. She was all the more terrifying for the fact that where she had been, nothing was left.
Her appetite was immense and all would be devoured in the face of her all-consuming hunger. Once she was sighted, folks would flee from her path - terrified they would be too slow and be eaten. She would eat anything. Grain and greenery, meat and men, all would vanish down her gullet.
Finally, a village she had passed near enough to devour half their fields and flocks gathered up their courage, and their remaining treasure, and went in search of an army to defeat her. After long travels, the village’s representatives found a small mercenary army. Now the village didn't have much, especially after the drakes visit, but the army agreed to work on what they called 'spec'. They foolishly thought that drakes, like dragons had treasure someone had been listening to too many tales. For what is treasure to one, might not be to another.
It is true the pale drake had a great treasure, but none but she thought it was so. The treasure she had, and the hunger she had were tied together for she held within her the last young of her species. In this case the female of the species was not only deadlier then the male, she was the last of her kind left…except for the possible future of her young.
The army followed the tracks of the drake as she went hither and yon finding sustenance not just for her, but for her young as well. For she knew they were all that was left of the pale drakes and she didn't want her race to end.
Finally, they found her trail, still a bit warm heading deep into a series of caves. And they followed. They didn't realize what else was in the cave, and they stirred up the leopards, hares, and demons that dwelled within as well. Most of the army can still be seen in that cave, frozen and still, and the survivors made a shrine to the fierce warriors there.
The pale drake bore her line...and they retreated further in the cave, leaving only a sentinel to stand watch and guard against the humans who might still come in search of treasure. Today, when we go there, sometimes we see the lone sentinel...and sometimes we kill it, bearing away what we see as its treasure that keeps it warm against the cold. But the true treasure, the drakes themselves, live where we do not go.
Inspired by a story Purazon had just started. A noble in his tale was blaming his guide for the fact he tripped over a root. Told recently in the grill.
There was once a grand a fearsome bear. Some might find him hardly bearable for the amount of growling and roaring he could. And the damage he could do looking for food? Oh my! Let's just say when he went through berry bushes, there were bare bushes left. He could strip a bush of berries, or a stream of fish lickity split! And in fact, he often did.
But, humans knew how to keep the bear out of their fields, and they often would. For who wants their crops crunched and consumed by one who won't even pay for it? However, there was one who wouldn't go to the lengths he needed to keep the bear away. Funny that was, for it didn't take too much for the bear had a secret dislike of noise! Metallic noise in particular. So all the farmers had to do was hang pots and pans, and thin strips of metal around their fields where they would clash and clang. Simple enough, but this farmer didn't want to be bothered.
Instead, when the bear came through he cried and bemoaned the fact that many of his fine fields were flattened and stripped. He raised his voice and beat his chest all things that I'm told men do when they're upset. His fuss was so great; it attracted attention from a man passing through. One who knew nothing about the bear.
He listened to the man and commiserated with him. He even gave him some coin to replant and repair. Then he went on his way feeling he had done his good deed for the day.
He stopped for the evening at a nearby inn and sat in the common room to have his meal. Here he overheard several locals making disparaging remarks over the 'poor man' he had helped. He was...astonished to hear such words about another's misfortunes. He went to the men and chided them for their non-kind feelings towards another and was even more shocked when he heard the truth of how the man could have avoided the entire problem
“I can't believe it!” he exclaimed. “He could have avoided the destruction? But when I spoke to him he made it sound like it was unexpected! I've been a fool. I can't believe he tricked me like that!” The man continued bemoaning his own foolishness and belief. It was quite funny really. First, he was pleased he had helped someone and now he hated his own generosity and blamed another.
One of the older men, long since retired form the fields and since taken up his new job emptying mugs, chuckled at him. “He avoided taking steps to help himself, and now you have fallen into the same pit” the retired farmer said. “But yours came from a good heart and will be repaid whereas his will be repaid by that bear tearing back through in a while!”
The others in the room laughed and the evening passed by rather well with tales and mugs being exchanged
The next morning the man went on his way, his pouch lighter, but his lesson not as costly as it might have been. He listened more carefully in the future and helped those who could truly benefit and aid themselves
That is the tale as I read it, but we all learn it at one time or another
There was once a grand a fearsome bear. Some might find him hardly bearable for the amount of growling and roaring he could. And the damage he could do looking for food? Oh my! Let's just say when he went through berry bushes, there were bare bushes left. He could strip a bush of berries, or a stream of fish lickity split! And in fact, he often did.
But, humans knew how to keep the bear out of their fields, and they often would. For who wants their crops crunched and consumed by one who won't even pay for it? However, there was one who wouldn't go to the lengths he needed to keep the bear away. Funny that was, for it didn't take too much for the bear had a secret dislike of noise! Metallic noise in particular. So all the farmers had to do was hang pots and pans, and thin strips of metal around their fields where they would clash and clang. Simple enough, but this farmer didn't want to be bothered.
Instead, when the bear came through he cried and bemoaned the fact that many of his fine fields were flattened and stripped. He raised his voice and beat his chest all things that I'm told men do when they're upset. His fuss was so great; it attracted attention from a man passing through. One who knew nothing about the bear.
He listened to the man and commiserated with him. He even gave him some coin to replant and repair. Then he went on his way feeling he had done his good deed for the day.
He stopped for the evening at a nearby inn and sat in the common room to have his meal. Here he overheard several locals making disparaging remarks over the 'poor man' he had helped. He was...astonished to hear such words about another's misfortunes. He went to the men and chided them for their non-kind feelings towards another and was even more shocked when he heard the truth of how the man could have avoided the entire problem
“I can't believe it!” he exclaimed. “He could have avoided the destruction? But when I spoke to him he made it sound like it was unexpected! I've been a fool. I can't believe he tricked me like that!” The man continued bemoaning his own foolishness and belief. It was quite funny really. First, he was pleased he had helped someone and now he hated his own generosity and blamed another.
One of the older men, long since retired form the fields and since taken up his new job emptying mugs, chuckled at him. “He avoided taking steps to help himself, and now you have fallen into the same pit” the retired farmer said. “But yours came from a good heart and will be repaid whereas his will be repaid by that bear tearing back through in a while!”
The others in the room laughed and the evening passed by rather well with tales and mugs being exchanged
The next morning the man went on his way, his pouch lighter, but his lesson not as costly as it might have been. He listened more carefully in the future and helped those who could truly benefit and aid themselves
That is the tale as I read it, but we all learn it at one time or another
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 2:46 pm, edited 1 time in total.
A tale recently told in the Grill. Inspired by a RL skunk meandering past the window and a chat with Topaz.
The Skunk and the Squirrel
One of the most striking and handsome of all forest animals is the monochrome skunk. Don’t laugh about it, for he is also one of the most fearsome warriors having a weapon few if any can withstand.
But, I am told even the mightiest can be felled by emotions and this is what happens.
Although Skunk was a fearsome warrior, and well respected, he was used to being alone. Respect is one thing, affection another. Little did Skunk know but one had been watching him with growing interest.
Skunk was patrolling his wood as usual when his routine was disrupted. “Hello” a cheerful voice said. It came from above, and Skunk looked up. Russet and lithe, bright eyed Squirrel regarded him.
“Are you speaking to me?” Skunk was surprised.
“Of course I am! I see no one else about, do you?” was the quick response as Squirrel flirted her tail. With that first greeting, their relationship started. Squirrel would accompany Skunk on some of his patrols. After a few days she dropped to the ground and walked beside him instead of scampering through the trees.
Skunk thought long and hard. He was touched by her gestures for he knew Squirrel was happier in a tree. In secret he practiced and practiced. One day when they and Squirrel started to descend he stopped her. “No let me walk with you” and he climbed the tree and they progressed that way. And they were both happy, for they both made their choices from their own desire to please the other.
But others saw and they weren’t so happy. Squirrel’s numerous family members began speaking against Skunk. ‘He’s dangerous’ and ‘he’s just taking advantage of you’ was some of what they said.
And Skunk’s peers said ‘she’s flighty’ and ‘she just wants to get your reflected glory.’
Soon Skunk and Squirrel were unhappy as well for they were listening to those about them, and not themselves…or their hearts. It didn’t take long for Squirrel to ask Skunk to disarm when they walked, and Skunk asked Squirrel to stop dashing about. It all stemmed from what their friends told them. It’s funny. When you choose to make a change for someone, you have no difficulties; but when you’re told to, then the trouble might start.
Soon they weren’t talking to each other as they used to. They didn’t even visit anymore. After a while, they even avoided the other.
Skunk had both found and lost as had Squirrel. Others got in their way and they let them. Follow your own heart, not what others say and cause you to fear. And that is the tale of Skunk and Squirrel. May they realize their foolishness one day and not walk alone.
edited as the transfer over muddled it up.
The Skunk and the Squirrel
One of the most striking and handsome of all forest animals is the monochrome skunk. Don’t laugh about it, for he is also one of the most fearsome warriors having a weapon few if any can withstand.
But, I am told even the mightiest can be felled by emotions and this is what happens.
Although Skunk was a fearsome warrior, and well respected, he was used to being alone. Respect is one thing, affection another. Little did Skunk know but one had been watching him with growing interest.
Skunk was patrolling his wood as usual when his routine was disrupted. “Hello” a cheerful voice said. It came from above, and Skunk looked up. Russet and lithe, bright eyed Squirrel regarded him.
“Are you speaking to me?” Skunk was surprised.
“Of course I am! I see no one else about, do you?” was the quick response as Squirrel flirted her tail. With that first greeting, their relationship started. Squirrel would accompany Skunk on some of his patrols. After a few days she dropped to the ground and walked beside him instead of scampering through the trees.
Skunk thought long and hard. He was touched by her gestures for he knew Squirrel was happier in a tree. In secret he practiced and practiced. One day when they and Squirrel started to descend he stopped her. “No let me walk with you” and he climbed the tree and they progressed that way. And they were both happy, for they both made their choices from their own desire to please the other.
But others saw and they weren’t so happy. Squirrel’s numerous family members began speaking against Skunk. ‘He’s dangerous’ and ‘he’s just taking advantage of you’ was some of what they said.
And Skunk’s peers said ‘she’s flighty’ and ‘she just wants to get your reflected glory.’
Soon Skunk and Squirrel were unhappy as well for they were listening to those about them, and not themselves…or their hearts. It didn’t take long for Squirrel to ask Skunk to disarm when they walked, and Skunk asked Squirrel to stop dashing about. It all stemmed from what their friends told them. It’s funny. When you choose to make a change for someone, you have no difficulties; but when you’re told to, then the trouble might start.
Soon they weren’t talking to each other as they used to. They didn’t even visit anymore. After a while, they even avoided the other.
Skunk had both found and lost as had Squirrel. Others got in their way and they let them. Follow your own heart, not what others say and cause you to fear. And that is the tale of Skunk and Squirrel. May they realize their foolishness one day and not walk alone.
edited as the transfer over muddled it up.
Last edited by AKA Azure on Sat May 24, 2008 1:38 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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