The Thousandfold Tale

[Don Nadie]

The Thousandfold Tale

There was once a man with bright eyes and a big nose who'd announce storytelling events in the Whispers. With eager step, he'd take to the dais of the Speaker's Mound to tell a story he called the Thousandfold Tale. He claimed this tale contained the names of the wind, the songs of the Wheel, the depths of the human heart, what stars whisper to one another, and a variety of other marvelous things.

Of course, he'd add, it is by hearing the Thousandfold Tale to completion that such things would be revealed.

Once and again, voiceless and others would come to hear his stories. These are but transcriptions that someone (perhaps the author himself, perhaps another) started putting out so that those who had missed one of the tellings could, nonetheless, learn of the story. While the transcriptions lacked the dramatics and scenography of the performance, they offered, to many, another chance of enjoying the show...

And so it was, it is told, that the man walked onto the dais and started speaking his first tale, which was none other than...

[Don Nadie]

The Tale of the Teller

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Know that this, said the teller, is the Thousandfold Tale! Hear it keenly and, when it ends, you shall know the names of the Wind, the songs of the Wheel, the secrets star whisper when nobody is looking!

I ask your leave,  dear public! For the Tale begins with a teller, and this teller is Alejandro Benjazar!

Once, I was meant to toil the land. Once, my hands were callused with the deily work of the fields. With effort,  carved the ditch and extracted, from the field, its meager bounty. Olive trees we grew, goats we cared for. We ate little, but we ate!

Oh, I was young and careless! So what, then, if the ash floated above us? What if, as I grew older, no wrap could protect our breathing and the fields were chocked by dust?

It was a matter of months, but I was still cheerful! For I had brothers, sisters, parents friends... And then the Wheel turned and things... Came to an end.

There had been storms before, I thought, when the clouds of ash roiled over us. I gathered our goats, set tarp over the olive trees, like I had done a thousand times.

There had been storms before. How foolish of me.

So came the winds! Never had I seen such gales, carrying such burdens of dust, of ash, that no wall could keep away! Our homes creaked and groaned like a ponderous giant!

A creak. A groan. Even the goats held their breath...

And then....

It was all one thing: the wind throwing open a door, making the animals panic, making the children scream! The rush! The fear! The storm! The battered breath, waiting for death to enter! And I, running headfirst into the storm!

For you see, dear public, I was foolish. My favourite goat, a little runt named Canela, had ran away in fear and I, still a boy, sought to save him. It was all but one instant: stepping out, grabbing Canela, being flown away and rolling down new dunes with him pressed against my chest...

...As though that didn't spell my death.

Do I need to tell you what happened when I awoke? Do you not know the fate of a young man after such  a storm, with the air still made of dust, with every breath feeling like a burden? Do you need to hear that there were no signs of my village, of our trees, buried by the storm? How I wandered for a day and a night and yet another day, the heat scorching my skin, the wind blistering my lips, finding no repose, no stillness, no shadow?

Do you need to know how I survived...? Who died first? Do you not know... Who died... Whose body gave up first... And whose body... Whose body I buried, rather than eat, to let myself die?

We were two tiny creatures in the vastness of the desert. Canela went first. I was... To follow.

I was ready to die, that second skyless night. I would've died, had I not seen... A light? A light indeed, dear public... A light...

Now, I did not knew how much my life was to change. How much the person I was to meet would teach me. I did not knew their name, much less the name and content of the Thousandfold Tale. I was, however, about to discover it...

Who do you think it was, my dear audience? A merchant? A king? A princess? a god? Was it my parents? Was it my neighbors, my friends? Ah, we shall know soon. But not today.

For the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow.

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

The Tale of the Wanderer

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As you remember, dear audience, I was lost and exhausted and ready to die, when I saw a fire in the distance. At such times, as you well know, it is the body that takes the reins. Survival overwhelms the weariness, for the flesh won't give up, even when the mind may have. And so, closer to corpse than to man that I was, I still found within my lungs the breath to scream for help. Whomever was carrying the fire heard. I was rescued, I was given water, I slept.

When I woke up, I was briefly happy. Such is sleep:  a man may dwell in dreams and emerge not knowing where he is or why, and so even the most wretched may have respite, in the brief interludes of rest.

Then, of course, I remembered my parents, my brothers, my sisters, my friends. I remember Canela and, in the hopes that it all had been a bad dream, I stood up.

Oh, I was not to be so lucky, for I was in the desert, and all those I had loved were most likely gone. My stirring, however, called the attention of my rescuer, whom I would finally meet. He was tall and imposing, his clothes worn by the desert, his face covered in wraps.

Now, dear audience, what I will say shall perhaps make you doubt the veracity of this poor teller. Please, know that no lies may be held within the Thousandfold Tale, and so what I will say shall perhaps make you doubt the veracity of this poor teller. Please, know that no lies may be held within the Thousandfold Tale, and so what I will say shall perhaps make you doubt the veracity of this poor teller. Please, know that no lies may be held within the Thousandfold Tale, and so what I'm telling you must be as truthful as the heart that beats within my chest.

Hear this and marvel: for my savior was none other than the Wanderer, Warad!

Now, beloved public, I am as surprised as you may be. I was but a foolish boy, and am but a foolish storyteller... How could I deserve such an honor? Perhaps the Wanderer wandered in flesh, His divinity being to the body like water is to a cup. Perhaps the Wanderer needed someone to hear the Thousandfold Tale. Perhaps only a miracle could save my heart, and so a miracle I sought. Perhaps I know not what I'm telling you, and this was but a wanderer, rather than the Wanderer. Perhaps it is not for me to judge a god's reasons, but to accept them.

Whatever the case may be, I know it was him. And hear, oh public, that Warad says onto me:

Whatever the case may be, I know it was him. And hear, oh public, that Warad says onto me:

"You are alive". That was his first, banal statement. His voice, dear public, was as deep as the moonless sky. Oh, I could feel the smile in His tone but, heartbroken, I could not to find any solace in His tenderness.

"Not for long!", I screamed instead, reaching for a knife, bringing it next against my chest. "Not for long!", I repeated, crying, as the blade took a first drop of blood. "My life has no use, for I have lost all I loved! What reason do I have to live?"

"You have one", he said. His tone, as I've said, was like the moonless sky and it was his tone, more than his words, stopped me. Warad nodded, and continued: "I know a Tale that may show you, young man, and so, I offer you a deal. Give me one Tale to convince you. If, when it ends, you still wish to die, I shall provide you with a death much less painful than the knife or desert."

His voice was deep. His voice was a well of fresh water in the desert. His voice was a balm and a blanket and a refuge. I left the knife to my side, I accepted.

Oh, dear public, you see I still live, and so you know already that Warad showed me a reason to do so. He would also teach me much: how to travel, how to worship, how to gaze at the stars and so tiny and so lost. He would tell me Thousandfold Tale and, with it, I would come to know all manner of wonders.

But first, he would tell me one story. Can you imagine what it was? Do you know, oh audience, what fable Warad wove to save a foolish boy's life? ? I can tell you, my beloved public, that it was a tale close to our hearts here in Ephia's Well, for Warad said to me:

"Once, there were a woman, a man, and a chalice...", he said. "Once there was the promise of a future, and of verdant gardens blooming from beneath the sand"

Oh, but the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

If only the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

The Tale of the Woman, the Man and the Cup

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There was once a City. Oh, how verdant it was! Its gardens bloomed in every direction; its canals sang with the clearest water! It had no more walls than rows of roses, no more slums that the fallow lands where wild poppies and dandelions shone wildly...

Wherever you looked, there was water, and there was green, and there was joy.

Once, there was a City, and in that City, there was a woman. Oh, how beautiful she was! A jewel in a jewel, for she had legs like a gazelle, and eyes like the darkest wine! She was so beautiful, dear public, that carnations bloomed wherever she set her feet, blood-red like her lips!

She was not only beautiful, however, but also important and good.

You see, this City was sacred, and so was this woman. Blessed by B'aara, the sweet Mother of Waters, she held within her the key to the City's bounty. As a child, she had shared her water with a thirsty old hag... None other than the Goddess herself, in disguise.

"Wherever you settle, will be a garden", the Goddess had declared, "and all shall bloom, so long as you know no heartbreak."

No longer had the goddess spoken that, by the woman's feet, water burst, filling the sky with rainbow and laughter. What a blessing! What a joy! And so it had been, years upon years, for the blessings of the gods are never untrue.

Alas, only in a better world can a heart never break.

Once there was a man who arrived at this City. Oh, how beautiful he was! A jewel within a jewel, for he had hair like the darkest coal, the eyes of a mirage! He was so beautiful that, when he was seen by the woman, it was like the flint striking the stone, and their hearts were alight!

They loved one another like the sea loves the shore: admiringly and endlessly, always repeated and always new.

But once, also, there was also a caliph. Oh, how powerful he was! At his command walls rose and fell, at his judgment, families lived or died! He was so powerful that no army could stand on his path, and nothing that he wished could be kept from his reach.

He was so powerful that he had claimed ownership over the City of B'aara's gift, and so powerful that none could deny him.

And so it came to pass that the caliph visited the brightest jewel in his crown, the City where the man and the woman loved each other. Oh, how his heart blared when he saw the woman, how it was set aflame!

He loved her like the fire loves the wood: despairingly and thoroughly, with a harmful intensity that can only consume.

"You shall marry me!", the caliph declared, and the town clapped, for they had no choice.

Remember, dear public: he was so powerful that he had a leash on everyone's hands, a leash on all opinions. He was so powerful that no rebellion was possible, that no option was available, but to bow.

And so when the news reached the woman and the man, they felt as though their spines were ice, as though their eyes were dust, as though the entire weight of the world had moved into their stomachs.

They would have to say goodbye.

But before, they had a night, and a night they would take. They shared a glass of wine, drinking and embracing, until the stars gave way. And then, as the sky lit with the pink hues of the sun, they cried.

Oh, how they cried! Their tears came from so deep within they washed with them every joy, every blessing, and as they fell on the ground, the ground of the City dried. And so it was that, by the time they realized what was happening, almost all of it was a desert.

"Oh, B'aara's blessing", the woman lamented, for her heartbreak and the City's destruction were all one and the same. "I shall not only lose you, my love, but the future of this City...", she whispered, tearful.

From the streets rose they could hear the lamentations of the people, the screams of the caliph's legions. How, intolerable it was to the man and the woman: the loss of their home, of their love! And soon, too, the loss of their life, for the soldiers were to arrive, looking for someone to punish.

After all, nobody is more bitter than the greedy, when they are denied what they want.

Thankfully, a god's generosity is not that easily spoiled...

"Not all is lost", whispered the man, suddenly awed, as he dried his tears. For there, between them, filled to the brim, was a chalice. It was a simple cup, mind you. The kind of thing one uses every day, worn by repeated washing, by the small little cracks of a routine that was one and the same with love.

However, within it, shimmering, were the last tears of the woman. The last of B'aara's blessing. It was hope! It held the promise of verdant gardens, the possibility of lush fields, the chance of a world where all were brethren and, like brethren, embraced.

Alas, hope was frail! For, if this was found by the soldiers, if this was taken to the caliph, no doubt he would hoard it to himself. The promise of the future, in the hands of a single, greedy man, would amount to ash and dust and hunger.

The woman, realizing this, steeled herself. "Run", she ordered, and her beloved could not protest. With a kiss, they parted ways: the man, with the cup, to the desert, the woman to the Plaza, where she cried to the multitude:

"Sons of the Wheel! Know a better time will come!", she declared and, in their despair, the people knew hope.

"Know that someday the wicked will fall!", she said and, in their sadness, the people knew justice.

"Know our hope will be hidden from the unworthy, awaiting a worthy future!", she said and, for a moment, the people knew solace.

She could say no more, for she was captured, put in irons, brought forcefully to the caliph. Oh, how the caliph loved her then! How he wished to consume her, furious, for he felt he was losing both his treasure and his desire!

"You shall tell me where it is, this hope", he ordered. Hope, in his mouth, was almost a spit of venom.

The woman was beautiful. The woman was smart. She knew her beloved needed time. She knew the caliph's wizards could force the truth out of her mind. And so, astute, to buy time, she feigned cooperation and lengthened, briefly, the hours of her life:

"Oh grand caliph, love of my heart, I will indeed tell you", she started. "For, you see, once, in a distant city, there were two rivals..."

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

The Tale of the Two Rivals

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[This transcription includes a few notes on staging, which apparently requires a really well-trained frog. Some who may have heard the first performance may also note that Alejandro seems to have changed the names of both heroes from Jamil and Niel to Hakim and Baruk.]

Remember, dear public, that the very Warad delayed my death by telling me the tale of the woman who, to delay her own death, told a tale to the sultan. And here is the tale that she told:

Once, in a distant City, there were two rivals. Baruk and Hakim were their names, and they were, in everything, opposed... Even though they both worked in the field of archeology and scholarship.

Baruk was slim where Hakim was sturdy, dark where Hakim was pale. Hakim was small and, as though to irritate him, Baruk towered one head above almost everyone. Even in clothes they looked dressed by rival tailors, for Baruk sported sandy colors and practical shirts, whereas Hakim wouldn't be caught dead without his bright purple cloak. And in looks they were almost twins, compared to their differences in all else!

For you see, Hakim was bright of smile and temperament. He approached obstacles with that kind of tireless optimism that almost seems a strange form of luck. Once, an assistant had shattered a piece of pottery, and instead of getting angry, he had just invented a new method to restore broken ceramics! Meanwhile, Baruk frowned at a world never quite as trustworthy as it should be. He was exact and dedicated, with a particular fondness for strict systems of classification. It was his tireless effort to root out mistakes and update the archives that made it possible to relate one discovery to another.

One rescued things from the ravages of time through sheer ingenuity. The other ensured they survived through discipline and intellect.
 
One was a master of improvisation, the other a weaver of certainty.

You'd think they would realize the evident, dear public, and accept the fact that their approaches were complementary, that their styles were like two instruments that can and should work in unison. But rarely are men eager to accept there are more than one way to be right!

How many of us tolerate not the man who sings an instrument we dislike, who enjoys what we hate, who eats no meat or drinks no wine? How many of us feel our neighbors' choice is a judgement and condemnation upon ours? Alas! Baruk and Nael were no different!

And so, when news broke that an explorer had found a new temple in the depths of the swamps, Baruk and Nael both rushed to seek it.

"I must get there before that idiot starts filling it with string and numbers", said Nael, "for no doubt there are secrets there that his carefulness will leave undiscovered!"

"I must get there before that idiot moves everything", said Baruk, "for no doubt he will break or throw anything that doesn't have "IMPORTANT ARTIFACT" written on it".

And so they both set to the swamp with their respective weapons, equipment and research team, racing to get to the temple before the other. It was an exhausting but not horrid trip which did, however, come to a hideous end. For as they were reaching the temple from different directions, they heard something... Through the foul air, through foliage and mosquitoes... A song?

Creek, Crag, Croakity Crook!
It is at long last
time for the moot!

It was a croaky, deep song, ringing from the temple... A moot? An encounter of significance? Questions raced through the heads of Baruk and Nael, for, dear public, the song continued...

Creek, Crag, Croakity Crook!
We'll finally destroy
That great ancient book!

An ancient book? To be destroyed? That got their hearts racing, for as different as they were, they both shared the same shinning passion: that the past had to be rescued. But as they moved forth in trepidation, the song continued closer and closer...

Creek, Crag, Croakity Crook!
Whomever is near
We will surely cook!

Then, the singing frogmen had appeared! An ambush! For with that song, the beastly tribe jumped on both groups violently and without hesitation! Horror! For Hakim barely managed to parry the sword coming for his heart, while his troupe got captured, dashed, knocked down! He escaped further through the enemy lines! Towards the temple! Horror!  For Baruk barely managed to dodge the sword that would've taken his life, while his troupe got beaten and broken! He escaped further through enemy lines! Towards the temple!

And so, they came onto one another in a vast corridor with many a door. And through the chambers of the strange temple they could her them, the wicked frogmen, echoing:

Creek, Crag, Croakity Crook!
We'll finally destroy
That great ancient book!

"What are you doing here, you fool", asked Baruk, just as Hakim was saying the same.

"You're surely going to break whatever important thing they have with carelessness!", complained Baruk.

"You're definitely going to lose whatever important thing they have with slowness!", replied Hakim.

Creek, Crag, Croakity Crook!
Whomever is near
We will surely cook!

Sang the frogs, significantly less invested in their differing methodologies, or the advancement of their shared field of expertise.

Rivals as they were, the two men valued both their life and knowledge. Hence, while they didn't exactly set aside their bickering, they at least managed to whisper it as they went through the rooms of the horrid temple.

"You oyster-brained fool! Don't you know post-Mesuanic ideophonograms? Obviously only this door will lead us towards the main hall, while the rest are evidently traps!", declared Baruk, choosing the only door that wasn't deadly through expertise and observation. And Nael didn't respond, for he had to admit that he had forgotten most ideophonograms.

"You monkey-headed imbecile! You always need to move the moment you step on something and hear a click! It's always traps", complained Hakim, saving his companion thanks to his keen eye and quick reflexes. And Baruk shut up, for once, for he saw the arrow sticking from where he'd been but moments ago.

And so they made their way through the ancient halls and corridors, avoiding traps and solving riddles. Forced to work in close proximity, forced to see how their rival shone, each man found himself thinking, at unison: "Was he always so good at this?"

And so, at long last, they reached the central chamber. Silence reigned, the ominous croaking song gone.... For now. The book!  There it was, in a pedestal of strange markings still unburnt! A relieved exhale escaped them, a tension finally released. Safe!

Hakim stepped forward towards it... So dazed by the sight... He failed to notice the click as he stepped on one of the tiles!
He only had the time look upwards at the approaching blade when he felt the weight of Baruk pushing him out of danger! "Listen to the clicks", Baruk said, amused.

Baruk then approached the book and had almost touched it, when Hakim's hand held his, stopping the man! "If you don't press that symbol first, you're going to activate the fire to burn it. Have you forgotten your post-Mesuanic ideophonograms for an incineration station", winked Hakim.

And so, together they got the book. Forgetting all their troubles, cheerful in their victory, they flipped the pages and feasted on the mysteries of a bygone era...

And if they raised their eyes, it was only to see the other man, and to realize that there was something beautiful in him. "How dedicated he is", thought Baruk of Hakim... "How eager he looks", thought Hakim of Baruk...

Oh! How fortunate they were to have found victory precisely through their opposite natures! How Fate had conspired so that, unable to look away, they had learned from each other! And so focused they were that they failed to see... The High Priest with his sacred spear! Lunging with the force of fanaticism! His instrument of ritual sacrifice /shimmering/ with horrid magics and unspeakable powers! Moved by muscles trained by centuries of sacrifice! With the skill of a natural-born warrior!

Alas! It pierced a HEART, dear public!

Who do you think was it that found himself /fallen/ by this twist of foul fate? Who do you think used his companion's weapon to kill the frog? Who, oh, would survive the other and bring this discovery?

It matters not, for they were opposites... But so, too, are each of us to our reflection.

And so, one held the other in his arms and promised he'd be heralded as the hero in this tale. The other smiled weakly, whispering, "We should do it together...". And at that, unable to resist the last chance they'd have in this world, the survivor kissed his once rival, who smiled, and said, "Why don't you read the book to me?"

So he would die.

But before he did, he'd hear one last story. For the surviving rival said: "Once there was a girl, picking flowers..."

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. *A little smile, extends his arms as though encompassing the audience* We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

The Tale of the Handsome Fool

[The latest of the Thousandfold Tale, first performed by Alejandro Benjazar since becoming a Student Balladeer and also the Tale which earned him admission. It is also notable for being the first Tale which reccounts events of Ephia's Well, namely the death of Justin Rosedew. The transcription, sadly, does little justice to the stagecraft: onlookers claim there were transformations, darkness, blood and song... A full display.]

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Hear, oh public, the Tale of the Handsome Fool, as is told in the Tale of the Two Rivals, which was told in the Tale of the Woman, the Man and the Cup, as was told to me by Warad himself, under the gaze of the stars!

Once, there was a handsome fool...

Oh! He was so handsome! Bright like sand dunes was his mane! Blue like the clear sky after a storm were his eyes. Dashing and beloved! His smile...

...His smile made you feel as though the clouds had stopped.

But what a fool he was, too. So careless in action and decision... His affection, he showered to the undeserving; his company graced unwholesome cities. Careless he travelled, careless he returned to this City of ours.

And his name was Justin.

He had many friends, this man. Handsome as he was, kind as he was... He was friends to wise astronomists and stern sages, to brave paladins of the dunes and sly politicians. And one of his friends was a singer. Often did the singer travel by his side. Often, he saw him be cheerful. And stupid. Often, especially when they shared a campfire in distant dunes and the sun hid mercifully for the night... The fool would smile. And the singer could swear that clouds had turned still.

But so it came to pass that, one day, as they returned from the desert, they found a stranger. Well dressed he was in riches, though lacking in the retinues of merchants.

"I am lost. Are you on your way to Ephia's Well?", he asked.

"Why, yes", responded the fool, for his heart couldn't harbor suspicion.

"Will you invite me, then?", asked the stranger. "Invite me to share this refuge? This shelter to so many? For I am weary, you see, as I have travelled so long and so far..." And while that gave the singer pause, for he knew old tales, the fool... The fool didn't.

"Of course you're invited!", exclaimed the fool, and his smile was as shinning as ever.

But then, it came to pass that the stranger vanished, for he was a djinni of the sands. And the fool still smiled, for he knew not of the djinni.  What a fool he was... Such a fool that, when he was offered a reward by the very wind, it was with innocent cheer that Justin told the djinni how, seeing as he worse such fantastic clothes and performed such nice tricks... He'd like to be, in appearance, equally impressive.

An he sealed his fate there and then.

It would take weeks for it to descend upon him, still. But his death was like the falcon, as it watched from afar, its eye on the prey which, innocently, knew not of its future. I could tell you of the efforts by the Nadiri to expel the djinni, of the fool's adventures with the singer and with many others. But those things have no bearing in our tale. So I shall tell you, instead, that one day, the singer saw the fool at the Souk.

"Handsome as ever", the singer said... For it was a truth unspoken.

"That makes two of us", responded the fool. And he smiled. And the clouds stopped in the sky, for a moment. But they didn't dally, for they'd see each other later.

The fool got his wish. He became, indeed, impressive. In a full inn, his body broke. Limbs and wings and membranes, they erupted from his skin like the bloodied petals of a cursed flower. 

Covered in blood he was... As the wise Nadiri took him to their Mounth. Oh!, they hoped to cure him... But all their wisdom and all their knowledge... All the might of the Heavens and the Disc...

...It was not enough.

"You are cursed beyond us", said the Nadiri. "You have changed, and may change more... But you may live the City, and live in the wilderness instead", the sage offered.

But the fool... The fool loved his city. He loved the company of his friends, the sounds of the Souk, the warm embrace of sunset as it enveloped the Pilgrim. He loved where he lived, lived where he loved. He would not be a monster, to be hunted in the dunes. He would not allow the curse to warp his mind, as it had already warped his body. He wouldn't let this djinni take more from him, to the point where he was no longer... The handsome man, whose smile could stop the clouds.

And so, he took his own life.

The singer only saw him afterwards. A body. Winged. Handsome still, in his eyes. But no longer with a smile that could stop the movement of the clouds. And so, outside the city, the legion of his friends set a pyre and regretted. All that could've been said. All that could've been done. And the singer sang, for that was all he could do:

The last time I saw you,
your smile was so bright.
Tell me, my friend,
did I do you right?

As I saw you then leave,
not knowing you were gone,
 I thought: "There goes
my friend for so long."

I thought you flew so freely,
soaring over us all...
You were always so cheerful
as though you'd never fall...

The last time I saw you,
you were happy and true.
Tell me my friend,
did you already knew?

Did you already knew?
Did you already knew?
That death comes so sudden?
Just out of the blue...

Just out of the blue...
Just out of the blue...
Tell me, Justin...
Did you already knew?

And when he was done, another friend spoke.

She was a quiet woman. A refugee from distant steppes, her throat wounded by the wild ash. Quietly, she fought for every shelter she had, for every dinari she owned. She was like the wood which has hardened under the relentless buffeting of the sands.

But that evening, she spoke, for there was a tale that she knew, a tale that ought to be shared to entertain one last time the friend she would never see again.

"Once", she said, "there was a Caliph..."

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

The Tale of the Tiny Hero

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[This transcription includes a few notes on staging, which apparently requires some rather advanced bardic magics. At several points, a tiny rat is meant to stand on its hind legs, performing certain actions. Flying swords or actors bearing blades are meant to accompany an ambush scene and there is a long side-description on how to alter one's body and face with a combination of make-up and transmutative magics to make some kind of terrifying monstrosity. At the end, there is a note saying only "Too many sparks?" followed by "No such thing!!!"]

Once, there was a little rat.

She was so tiny, so insignificant, that she lived inside a tiny and insignificant amulet once crafted by a tiny and insignificant shaman.
She had a tiny home inside that tiny amulet - for that, my friends, is how the magic of summoning trinkets works - where she slept in a tiny bed and cooked in a tiny pot. She had a tiny plant which she watered with the water from a tiny well.  She had tiny books to read while she drank tiny tea, and thus, she was not only tiny and insignificant, but also a bit of a tiny and insignificant wizardress.

Of course, there was sometimes movement. Some kobold took the tiny and insignificant amulet from the shaman, and some adventurer, in turn, took it from the kobold. But the tiny and insignificant rat was content, just living her tiny and insignificant life. Until, that is, the day the woman holding the amulet decided to go into the darkest and most dangerous of adventures.

"We certainly dare', stated calmly Leiah, the Sage. A woman of great scholarship and erudition, a woman who could bring the very Heavens upon her enemies, she kept the amulet at the bottom of her bag. It was such a tiny and insignificant thing, long forgotten for more powerful potions and mighty scrolls which held within the powers of distant constellations.

"Without fear!', declared Kypros, Once-White, a man of radiant sword who held, nonetheless, great Darkness in his heart. Cloaked in white, his face unseen by all, he was thought of as a valiant companion. "I am ready and prepared', he lied, for he was neither.

"Where none have gone before...', nodded Kyana, the Canny, an astute scout who could only be seen where and when she wished. Few had ever deserved her wrath, but few of those who did survived the swirling of her strangely curved daggers.

"If you are all certain, my friends, we depart!', exclaimed Snorri, the Shield, a warrior of peerless renown, dedicated to the protection of his kin. With a weighty hammer, armored in mithral, he was the wall against which hordes of melek, goblin and more had met their timely end.

"Yup!', agreed, enthusiastically and last, a simple singer. With few talents beyond how to spin a Tale, he felt both eager to help and undeserving of such heroic company.

And so the heroes set out, bringing with them the simple storyteller and the tiny, insignificant rat inside her tiny and insignificant amulet... Not knowing that the horrors ahead were deeper and darker than anything they'd faced before! To Old Formoria they travelled, where few had dared before. They endured the blades of the Thousand Clans to gaze upon the worn-out glories of the Colossi and their craft. There, amidst the mysterious structures, laid an ancient pyramid where many an archeologist had disappeared...

"House of Repose', explained Leiah, the Sage, as spells were woven and powerful magics were called. For danger awaited them.

As they first stepped into the chamber, they were received by the horrifying sight of seven archeologists tied to the columns. Leiah, the sage, approached with compassion as daring as any hero's charge against his foes... Only discover a most horrifying sight: Their faces, my dear public.

Their faces... Had been stolen!

"P-perhaps we ought to turn back', proposed Kypros, Once-White, for though he still hadn't Fallen from the Wheel's Grace, cowardice was planting its seeds in his heart.

"We go!', cut Snorri, the Shield, for short is Dwarfkind's patience, when it comes to abandoning duty.

And, as though echoing his words, the doors closed behind them with the weight of centuries uncounted. Ambush! From the shadows, from the ceiling, fell what the heroes could but assume were the artifices of the murders. With barely any time to react, our daring adventurers saw their curved blades, sharp and deadly! Desperately, they fought to preserve their lives and faces, trapped between their deadly assassins and the locked door. They endured, they succeeded and, after their victory, gazed onto the corpses of their first foes.

How to describe the sight, dear public? How to describe something that is both eerily familiar and heinously misshapen? Ah, the Storyteller must strive, and so he does:

They were long limbed. Taller than any living man or woman, their shape was still sufficiently human that, from afar, they could've been thought normal. Their skin, too, revealed their foul nature: grey, it was, their veins bleeding some ichor more akin to dust than blood. But their faces, oh... That was the sight which almost made Kypros, Once-White, soil himself and stain his bleached cloak!

They had no faces.

Nothing but empty masks. Flat and metallic. Reflective. Masks which our heroes couldn't remove, as though they were part of their foes' very skull.

"Is... Is this a good time to mention t-that...', mentioned Kypros, "That I d-don't have a single potion of blurring?'

With a grunt, Snorri offered what he had, whilst silently cursing the unpreparedness of his companion. "Onwards, then', he declared gravely, his belt much lightened. Onwards indeed. Ahead of them, dark corridors and a deadly, dusty silence.

They would go in. They had no other choice.

Oh! What dangers they faced! A thousand perils they dared, and the thousand they endured. Snorri, the Shield, led the charge as he had led the expedition. His hand gripping his hammer, his shield raised high, he moved forth with the relentless power of an iceberg.
Many a mask was dented by his strength. By his side, Kypros, Once-White, gritted his teeth and, moved either by growing fear or the embers of his bravery, wielded his sword with desperate abandon, protecting the flank of Snorri. Kyana, the Canny, sneaked through the ancient corridors, where every breath carried the promise of sudden death. It was her eye which saw the trap in the corner, on the mosaic.Behind, but no less valiant, Leiah, the Sage, risked life and limb to ensure the warriors succeeded. It was her wisdom that filled those dark halls with the light of the Heavens and brought upon their pale foe the weighty hammer of Fate. And even the singer, weak though he may have been, put his skill to good use. For agile and nimble, he slipped between enemy lines, back and forth, bringing in his hands the Blessed Waters of B'aara as his voice rang, filling the ancient halls with echoes of inspiring heroism.

Oh, they endured and survived, together... But at what price? And for how long? For those halls, my beloved public, they were endless and foul. Slowly they burnt scrolls of grand power. Slowly they spilled the waters to heal their wounds. Slowly, they reached the last and grandest chamber, their strength much sapped... Only to find a horror much greater than all the horrors before.

Tall, it was, this foe.

Tall and wide, twice the size of any man who ever walked and lived.

Tall, wide and grinning.

For upon his pale flesh... This foul creature wore... The myriad faces his minions had stolen!

"Long have I sought such brave expressions, such beautiful faces', the monstrosity intoned, with an eerily amused tone. "And long...', it added, as it descended from its dais, "Long shall I wear you...'

Forth dashed the five brave heroes, into the fray! For though the sight filled their heart with fear, rage, too, clamored within their chest. This was their chance to stop such evil, and they would give it their all! Kypros, Once-White, fell first. His sword cut some of the trapped visages, freeing the souls held within and weaking the monster's much... But he was slapped against the wall, fell unconscious on the ancient mosaic. Kyana, the Canny, soon followed. She had dashed around the monster, done much to weaken its grip, but with a pained scream the monster exclaimed a single Word of Power, and stole the breath from her lungs. Oh, how bravely battled Snorri, the Shield, only to fall third! His shield stood against the fires conjured by their foe, his hammer dented its mask and broke one of its arms... But even a dwarf's endurance isn't endless: a gust of pure magic made him lose his step, another blast, his consciousness. Fourth fell the singer, though not without, in desperation, wielding what little magics he knew onto the foul monster, cracking its carapace with insults brimming with indomitable opposition, with the will to survive.

And last remained Leiah, the Sage. Weak and unable to stand, kneeling now, as the creature rejoiced over its prey.

"Your face', it declared, its monstrous finger lifting her chin, "I'll leave for last...'

"You... You...', trembled Leiah, her hands searching desperately into the bottom of her bag, finding something, clasping onto it with despair. And with defiant despair, as she activated her last resort, she screamed: "YOU WONT!'

Out emerged the tiny ratty wizard with a tiny splatter of magical sparks!

Unintimidated, amused, the evil monster cackled. "Is that... ALL YOU GOT?', he roared. Invincible, our foul monster felt, as these were but another group of foes defeated by its foul weapons and ancient sorceries. Defeated, they were. Tiny and insignificant, five of them, and a rat, not even close to the raw power he held...

And yet...

That laughter - oh - and that question! That bought our tiny, ratty wizard a few moments. A tiny flicker of the tiny hands. A tiny wiggle of the tiny whiskers and... MAGIC! Lightning and fire, my dear public! Sparks, only. Magic most apprentices learn to master by the time they can blur, but magic, nonetheless! Small, tiny...

And yet...

Like every small and tiny crack in the monster's armor, earned with sword, knife and hammer...

Like every small dent in the monster's flesh, worked with spell and song...

...It accumulated, dear public! It was little, and yet, it was /precisely/ enough!

"HOW.... Is THAT... Poo...Si...Ble..."

Defeat! An impossible defeat, and yet, one achieved, dear public! And who achieved it? Was it the tiny hero, its paws conjuring the spell that laid it low? The lowly singer, dashing with waters? Was it the Sage, whose magic worked wonders? Was it the knife, the hammer, the sword? None of them was.

None of them, alone, could've been.

For in any adventure we face, in politics, in life... It is not our individual power that will grant us victory, my beloved listeners.
It is the sum of our tiny and insignificant actions.

Each as tiny, as insignificant and as heroic as the last.

And so, five adventurers and one tiny rat mended their wounds, and helped each other, having ended one of the many dangers of the desert. And as they gathered the treasures, Leiah, the Sage, gazed upon a pillar full of ancient scripture. "Listen, my friends', she said. And following with her finger the ancient scribbles of long-gone sages, as four adventurers and a tiny rat sat around her, Leiah read, aloud: "Once', she said, "there was a group of travellers, about to reach a mountain...'

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

The Tale of the Two Cities

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[This particular Tale is not only added to the collection, but presented quite reverently to the Elder of the Dwarven refugees. The notes for the performance stress that the tone must be solemn, mournful and yet full of hope. How one balances such a act uneven is hard to tell, but it tells at least of the Bard's intention, when he performed... A few other notes indicate that, after the performance, half of a monument was set in the Dwarven hall, the other half hidden somewhere in mount Kulkund: a promise that someday they shall be reunited.]

Once, there was a group of travellers, about to reach a mountain. Trembling with the anticipation of a grand mission, they awaited for time to pass. Brave eleven, they were, and one of them said:

'Once, there were two cities.'

'High Kulkund, carved through the highest peaks of the Mount. It was a city of halls and prosperity, which stood proud and ever-wealthier. Deep Kulkund, mined into the deepest bowels of the earth. It was a deep mansion of military might which delved deep, and ever more scarred. Brethren they were, but never to touch, never to cross. For by ancient Compact, the High Dwarves kept to their Halls and the Deep dwarves to their Mannors, joined only by the Golgothan Way.

As High Kulkund developed art and trade, Low Kulkund developed the tools of war. Thus, one grew rich and one poor; one grew happy and one grew bitter. So much so that the King of the Depths sought Queen Ygritte II, to ask for his cousin's Charity... Foul was that, to the Ancestors! And thus, the Queen refused, and the Deep King returned, having prostrated himself for naught and he was bitter, and full of hate.

'Forgotten, Deep dwarves were, until one day, treacherously, they attacked from below. They stroke High Kulkund like a hammer, again and again. But hammering does nothing, without an anvil. And thus High Kulkund endured until the Thousand Clans came, summoned by the violence or, perhaps, by the Deep Dwarves themselves.'

'Between hammer and anvil, even the strongest metals bends. And thus many died, and much was broken. And the High Dwarves were forced to flee.'

'And much was lost, but not all, and not forever', concluded one of the travellers.

And they all nodded, for the caravan had arrived.

Through the Mount they travelled, even in the midst of a sandstorm, for they had found a key, which may unlock something in the ancient Halls of High Kulkund. A piece of their past, to save. In the tunnels used to infiltrate the city they lost their first companion. Hrudring was his name, sagely and kind. Hrudring we honor, may the Ancestors know his name.

In the Grand Halls of High Kulkund they lost their first leader. Doreahilda was her name, Runecarver of her Clan. She fell against a Blood Poet, most mortal blademasters of the Thousand Clans. Doreahilda we honor, may the Ancestors know her name.

By her side fell a human. Victor was his name, whose blade sharp and wit, even sharper. Victor we honor. May he be Aransummar, Dwarf-friend, forevermore.

To an assassin fell their sniper. Darak was his name, his bolts ever-certain. Darak we honor, may the Ancestors know his name.

Having lost four, they reached the door which their key opened. It had been secured by the centuries, protected by ancient compacts and mechanisms and, thus, protected from the savage Clans and the envious Deep Dwarves. To guardian golems fell another. Helgar was his name, his shield strong and his leadership steady. Helgar we honor. May the Ancestors know his name.

And then, they gazed upon the Hall of Assemblies, which had been spared the destruction of the rest of the City. And they gazed upon the ancient statues of the dwarven Monarchs and the luxurious mosaics of the speaker's floor and the greatness of the High Throne where Court had been held...

But it was none of these wonders, each a Tale in themselves, which caught their eye, no.

It was a simple speech, left on the lectern. The last speech pronounced before the King, before the violence descended. The last gesture of the High Dwarves, in the midst of all the violence. It moved them to tears, dear public. For even as they knew the treachery of their Deep cousins... Even then... That speech was one of noble dignity. That speech, blood-stained, was one which sought to reconcile brother with brother.

Alas, two cannot reconcile, if one holds but hatred and treachery in their heart.

Ambushed, the band was, by a Deep Dwarven Senator and his retinue. Though the heroes offered reconciliation, the Senator wished for violence. Though they tried to follow the spirit of these last dwarves, the Senator spit the poison of hatred. The band would not allow him to harm these last remnants... And thus, in these Ancient Halls, once more, High and Deep Kulkund clashed with violence.

To the Senator fell Ragnos first, who fought bravely and fell most of the Senator's retinue. Ragnos we honor. May the Ancestors know his name.

To the Senator fell Zieghart second, a Nadiri whose magic turned many a battle. Zieghart we honor. May he be Aransummar, Dwarf-friend, forevermore.

To the Senator fell Leiah, an Acolyte of the Sisterhood who translated that very speech. Leiah we honor. May she be Aransummar, Dwarf-friend, forevermore.

And so, after much killing, when he saw his chances grew slim and that his foes would not surrender, the Senator hastened out... For cowardice and treachery are entwined in the heart.

Three remained. Of valiant eleven. They would go on. They would return carrying with them the bodies of their comrades, the records of those engravings and, most important, the memory of what remained... In itself, a promise of what will, someday, be once more.
For one day, the High Dwarves will retake High Kulkund and cheer with mead and merry. But until that day we shall remember, and we shall honor those we lost.

And on the caravan back, to give them respite from their mournful silence, one of the three survivors began a Tale:

'Once', he said, 'there was one language...' 

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

The Tale of Where Languages Come From

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Once, there was but one Tongue.And this was a Tongue which was True.

Spoken it was by all, and spoken alone, for no other letters were carved, nor other words uttered, than those contained by this One Language, this Language Which Was Truth. There was no gap, no tension between meaning and symbol, for it was perfect and they were one and the same. And so, the word for "water" meant "water" in essence, and so did the words for anything you can imagine. There was a word for the feeling of the mother as she sees her child's first fall, for the feeling of the cloud as it bursts with rain, for the feeing of the bee as she meets the perfect flower. There were words for everything and all.

Not only that, because this one Tongue was spoken by all, all could communicate with each other. And thus, you could ask the clouds to stop in the sky! You could ask the river to hold its flow, to cross without getting you feet wet. You could ask tree to lower its fruitful branches, and getting what you wished, or what you needed, was but a matter of asking politely. Why, even Death and Age could be asked to, kindly, await a bit longer!

And so it was that there was no strife, and there was no suffering, for no suffering can exist when you understand perfectly all that surrounds you.

Alas! Alas that Time marches ever forward and that nothing lasts forever!

For once there was a man who spoke this Tongue, like all else, and this man loved a woman. And he loved, and loved and loved, with the kind of love which is possession, akin to a fire's desire for wood. Alas! He was jealous, and so he asked himself: "Why should I tell the woman I love "I love you" with words which have been used a million times over?" For he didn't want to share her, not even in words. And so, to make his love his alone, the man wanted words just for them. Words of his alone. Words for them, like a secret.

And so it came to be that the man worked and worked, toiled and toiled, thought and thought, for it is no easy thing to invent a new tongue which isn't true for all, when you've got a Tongue which is True.

And without asking the stone for permission, he took a stone.

And without asking the tree for permission, he took a piece of bark

And without asking the bark or the stone for permission, he pierced one into the other to write a symbol. And the bark cried as the stone did while he worked, for they had been turned not into beings, but into instruments of someone else's will.

And by using something else, the man carved a symbol which was, he thought, a symbol of his love. Just for her and just for him.

But so it was that the stone was angry, and made a language for the Stone.

So it was that the tree was angry, and made a language for the Tree.

And so it was that trees, clouds, time, death, people, animals, coal, grains of sand, the dust which accumulates behind bookshelves, foam, laughter, tears... They all made a Tongue of theirs alone, for mistrust spreads like wildfire. Nothing would ever speak again the Tongue Which Was Truth with one-another. A chasm, forever, would exist between word and meaning, between what you mean to express and what you say, and how or whether it is understood.

The man, of course, delivered his symbol to the woman. The first word in the first humanoid tongue. A word for love.

And the woman loved him not. Instead, she sighed deeply and told him:

"Once, there was a scout..."

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

The Tale of the Locked Door

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Another Tale was performed in the Krak. With little announcement, it would seem that the spectacle came as a way to cheer a fellow Balladeer. Apparently, a member of the Legion took upon himself to briefly interrupt the introduction... Despite what ill luck such things bring.

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Live and drinks, oh friends! We gather under the gaze of Warad, the Traveller, the Storyteller.

We gather here to hear to tale, which I shall tell just as Warad told me, who in turn heard it from a dying archaeologist, who heard it from a mourning friend, who read it from an ancient scholar who, in turn, read it in an ancient steele which spoke of dwarves who, having survived a dreadful trip, told a tale they had heard from the first man who made the first language and who, on making it, heard this Tale from a scout.

For once, my friends, there was a scout, and this scout came upon a locked door. What a mystery it was! For its lock was complex and beautiful, and on plain sight one couldn't know whether it would be opened by key, or string, or keyword, or keystone. By mechanics or magic.

None knew!

And so, when the scout came back with word of the Locked Dooor, the mystery spread. And many sought to open it. For all wished to know what it held.

"Would it have countless riches?", wondered the greed. "A gift to earn her love?", thought the romantic. Kings sought means to destroy their enemies, politicians the means to spy upon their allies. All went to open the Locked Door, and met one another, and spent time and time again. Arround it. Attempting to breach it.

And in the process of opening, they learnt much about the others, for there are things one only whispers in dark nights, when the mind is weary and the horns of your enemies ring in the distance.

And in the process, they knew much about themselves. For there are things one only learns when faced with the frustration of the unknown.

But! Once, the Locked Door was at long last open!

And behind it were no treasures, no secrets, no artifacts, no riches.

Past the Locked Door were, instead, three more doors. Each as locked as they one behind had been. Each as mysterious, and ponderous, and inviting. Each calling.

And such it is with knowledge, dear reader, for to learn what we don't know is to find, in turn, even more about the depths of our ignorance. There's always one mystery left.

And so, a lockpick turned to his friends and sighed and said he had a Tale. To help them deal with their dissapointment.

"Once", he said, "there was a cave..."

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

Apparently, the latest installment of the Thousandfold Tale wasn't even announced on the Bellows. Some shirtless adventurer came asking for loremasters to tell him about Saphraak, for he had found one of her innumerable eyes. The Storyteller, in turn, obliged. Of course, some patrons would claim he simply made up the Tale on the spot, but that'd be a terrible, terrible thing to say.

The Tale the Sabotage and Saphraak the Spider

Once... There was a cave.

Not any cave, mind you, but the first cave. For this was the beginning of the World, when things hadn't had the time to grow and multiply. And thus there was only one cave, only one lion, only one moon, and only one star. And in this cave, many found refuge. For in that time, you see, Pra'raj shone bright and burnt all under his Eye.

But of course, many opposed Pra'raj! Then, as now! We all know of B'aara, yes? Of how she cried and gave life to the wastes, in those early days.  This tale, however, is about the Sabotage. Then, as now, They were sneaky, perhaps man, perhaps woman, perhaps neither. And sneakily, They sought to oppose wicked Pra'raj.

Alas, They were weak, since They could only work from the shadows.

And so, every day They would go out and try a trick, and every day they would be burnt and dig a hole and heal, in torment, under the dry dust of the waste. But one day, as They ran in flames, the Sabotage found a cave.

They were pleased. So pleased They were, by the shade, that They rested Their head on a stone, to enjoy its freshness. And this was, mind you, the first time the Sabotage had slept since the World began! For how could you sleep, when constantly burnt by Pra'raj? And They slept so deeply and They dreamt so much that, when They woke up... The stone had changed!

Now it was white, and a bit sticky, and polished. Like pearl... Like a little star... And as the Sabotage watched Their transformed pillow, it moved!

They were so startled that the stone fell on the ground and, as it fell, it cracked! And as it cracked, a creature emerged from within. Eight legs like the eight spokes of the Wheel. And an infinity of eyes, like the infinity of the stars.

And that spider was Saphraak.

And so, the Sabotage asked Saphraak: "Will you aid me?" For They needed help to trick the vile Pra'raj, just as we all need help to oppose evil. And Saphraak wove and wove and wove while the Sabotage distracted Pra'raj. And she made a spiderweb so thin that when the Sabotage led Pra'raj through it, Their wicked foe got his feet stuck on the web!

BAM! He fell to the ground!

Thus, Pra'raj was knocked out. And for as long as he was knocked out, there was a fresh evening. And the creatures who had suffered rejoiced, and celebrated Saphraak, for from then on there'd be night to lighten the burdens of the day.

And on that first night the creatures and the gods rejoiced and the Sabotage wrote silly things on Pra'raj's face, to embarrass him when he woke up.

And then, when Pra'raj began to stirr, Saphraak and Gellema returned to the cave. "How boring to wait", said Saphraak, for she was young and impatient, and they longed to get out once more, and bring mischief to the wicked. The Sabotage, of course, knew better. They smirked and, playfully, They said: "I'll entertain you with a Tale"

"Once", They said, "so many ages ago that the world was young and the names of things felt fresh..."

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

Once more, the Thousandfold Tale continued in an impromptu manner, as a new arrival requested a Tale to know the world better. In the comfort of the Krak, the Storyteller continued weaving his story... As ever, fact and fiction entwined into something alltogether new.

The Tale of How the Rings Fell

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Once! Oh, once, so many ages ago that the world was young and the names of things felt fresh...

The King of the Disc saw fit to raise Walls, so as to protect his subjects. And thus ring after ring rose, all built arround the walls encircling his castle. Like the waves in a pond, concentric and eternal, they rose. One after another. And these Walls were magic, and thus no enchantment could jump them, no trickery. Instead, each Ring had its key: a riddle, a challenge, a feeling, a word. No Ring would open like the ring before.

And so, the world was peaceful, and each ring tended to their own business. For within a ring you may learn things which would otherwise be impossible. Alas... No peace lasts forever.

And once, not so long ago, Darkness dawned in the edges of the Disc. Prince of Shadow, they called this Darkness, this Nothingness. From the edges, it would crawl and slither and slime, ever forward, ever forward. And those who suffered it were swallowed, and changed, and destroyed forever.

And for a while, it seemed the Walls held it. And then the Walls, too, kept falling to the Tide of Darkness. And so it was that the nothing kept coming closer, ever closer... Until it came to the shores of the Old Ward, in ring 99.

There, in the Old Ward, lived many, including the valiant knights of the Houses who, for a long while, tried to fight the Tide, to hold it back. A thousand Tales there are, of their battles. Their victories, temporary, their defeats, noble and innumerable. And so, eventually, the shattered Houses of the knights evacuated their peoples. Some marched with refugees to the Noble Drill - a magical machine powered by the hopeful dream of escaping this Tide.

Some stayed behind. To cover the retreat. And Ring after Ring more and more knights stayed behind, to cover the retreat. As the Noble Drill and its refugees moved forward, with Darkness always right behind them... Always but one night away from taking them...

And so it was until the Noble Drill began to cross the dreadful Smoulderpeaks, the talest mountain in the Disc! A volcano without peer where, it is said, giant birds, strange monsters and /worse/ lived. And close to the Peak... Whilst crossing... With Darkness reaching its tendrils onto its wheels...

The Drill broke.

And there they were. No more Walls they could simply cross. In despair, they moves swiftly through the tunnels. A battle! They crossed losing knight after knight to the Shadow but some - oh, only some - managed to reach the top.

And at the top of the tallest mountain, they knew... They knew their end would come. So they raised their blades... As below them, the tide of Shadow roared and climbed higher, ever higher... For their death was coming... The Prince in Shadow was coming...

And then! In the horizon!

At first? At first people thought it a falling star! A light far, far away, in the distance!

But no!

For soon they heard the echoes of trumpets, the echoes of hooves in the air! And soon, too they could tell who he was: the King of Kings!

Old he was, like the world, and weary, too! But old and weary, he had unsheathed his sword, mounted his hose! And from his Keep, through the wild airs, he rode, at long last, to the salvation of his People!

And there, at the top of the Peaks, he faced the Prince of Nothing.

And it is said that blades did not clash. That battle did not ensue.

But that, instead, the Prince in Shadow looked at the King, and the King of Kings looked at the Prince. And as they looked as one another, they knew some things which are not for us to know.

And so, the King took the Prince in his arms, embraced him like a lost-long son. And then...

. . .

Threw himself off the mountain. Prince and King, together, were swallowed by the nothing. Which then trembled, and flickered, and began to retreat as though it had never existed. Leaving behind not a body to be found. Not a crown. Not a sword. Just a memmory.

And as the Shadow retreated? There was a great rumble. And in the horizon rose a cloud of dust. First, from the center, from the King's Keep... But extending outwards. Slowly but surely each Wall trembled, each Wall faltered, each Wall fell to the ground and rose, with its fall, great clouds of Ash... And like once they had grown outwards, so did they then fall.

And a top the Smoulderpeaks, a survivor, a weary and tired knight sighed, and said:

"Once, there was a little boy..."

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

The shortest of the Thousandfold Tale, it'd seem, was a rather private affair. A gift, perhaps, for an old friend and a new arrival. In the office of the Purple Legate, two men listened to...

The Tale of the Boy Who Became King

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Once, there was a little boy, and that little boy woke up.

And the world arround him was dark, and vast, and empty.

So he reached out in the darkness, and found a crown. And with trembling fingers, misty-eyed, he set it upon his head. And, lo and behold! Light! And then the boy could see.

Crowned, the boy saw the wastes of ash, long abandoned. Crowned he saw, too, his own and painful solitude.

And saw he blew his breath onto the ash and saw, beneath it, resting, a man and a woman.

"Please wake", pleaded the boy, "For I am alone and scared". And the man's eyes flickered, and he woke.

"Please wake", pleaded the boy, "For I have none to love me". And the woman, too, awoke.

Phor and Ephia, they were, and each set their hand on his shoulders.

And the boy was no longer alone, and the world was his, to make.

But as he made it, for children are oft bored, if not entertained, Ephia told him a tale:

"Once", she said, "There was a city..."

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

One sleepy morning, when most in the Well rested, a Tale was offered to those who came searching to know more of the Thousand Clans. "A story", said the Storyteller, with a smile. "Though as every story, it carries within it the Truth".

The Tale of the Breaking of the Axe

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Once, there was a city, and in that city many precious things were made.

Silver and bronze were forged into jewels and artwork, and every day the hammering rang like a thousand beautiful bells. And in that city, lived the orcan whose ways were peaceful and full of subtle crafts. And yet, no peace lasts forever. Once, from afar, came an Empire, the long tendrils of its Tyranny spreading like a plague. Alas, that this beautiful city was on its path.

Allied with others, this beautiful city sought to defend itself, and its friends. And thusly, the orcan turned their hammers to iron and steel and bronze. And the silverworks rang making spears, making shields, making arrows... Making axes.

And from an allied city, a general came and said: "Behold! For your craft is subtle, but so is your understanding: there is no staying away from bloodshed! No matter how sharp your axes, they shall amount to naught, without a strong arm to wield them!"

And then this general took the greatest axe of them all, a thing of beauty so big and heavy it'd have taken twenty orcan to carry it. And he lifted it above his head. And he said: "Behold! The axe is raised! Who shall now follow it to defend what they love?!"

And the subtle craftsmen raised their hammers, their axes, and cried as one. "We shall!"

And so, the general got his thousand legions and, with their aid, turned back the attack of the Empire. But... Once the attack was turned, a debate formed, amidst the allies, within the city which once had worked silver and bronze for things of beauty and subtlety.

"Is enough to defend ourselves, and let this threat live?"

The general and his legions sought to fight till the bitter end, and erase from the Disc their enemies. But others, so many others, did not wish to pursue bloodshed. And who can we say who was right, after all, when the heart longs for peace but the world is soaked in blood?

And so the debate raged, and so the legions kept on hammering their blades and weapons.

Thus, it came to pass that the debate, unsolved by word, got solved by violence. For the general, at long last, raised his axe not against Empire and Tyrant, but against his own allies. And in one fell swop, clefted the head of his own sister, who had clamored for peace.

But upon breaking her head, the Axe, too, broke, ts pieces scattered. And thus scattered, too, the Cohorts, into a thousand clans for a thousand fragments.

And it is said that the biggest fragment lodged itself into the general's heart, and that the general would leave into exile, forever broken by what he broke. For there is, it said, great sadness in the breaking of things.

And before he left, bestowed upon his cohorts one last piece of advice, a tale.

"Once", he said, "there was a place called Al'Nasr, the Summer Palace..."

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!

[Don Nadie]

As a large gathering endured the glare of Pra'raj in the Plaza, a woman requested a story. And so, the Storyteller led them to the Well, where he performed another of the Thousandfold Tale.

The Tale of the Last Caliph and the First Sultan

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Once, there was a placed called Al'Nasr, the Summer palace! It was a Well of wonders, of holy waters and grand glories. And in the blessed waters of B'aara, the Caliphate would seep its roots, deeply, and grow and bloom in its myriad forms! Alas! Alas, that one day, a caliph forgot the wisdom of his ancestors.

It is said: a child is a blessing, and two, thrice-times so! And yet, when Uspek and Zojhir were born? A curse it was, instead. For they were twins, and equal in appearance... But naught else!

For Upsek was strong where Zojhir was soft, bold where Zojhir was thoughtful, beautiful where Zojhir was wretched. And so it was that Zojhir was driven to suble arts and mathematics. Whilst Uspek was driven to daring and military might.

Alas, their father died, and he did without settling a question... For you see it is the sagely custom of the noble Ashfolk that matters of succession be settled via fire. And so, since ancient times, a caliph chooses, of his children, who will live and who will burn. And so it was, for instance, that our noble Sultan gave his brother to the fires of the Inmolation. And so it was that Akilah gave his many half-brothers to the fires too. But the father of Zojhir and Uspek? Melancholic, he was too heartbroken to choose.

Thus, none was chosen, and both lived. And Uspek was loved in the Court and noble, and worthy of the Spear... While Zojhir was loved in Qa'im, loved in the Bright Madrassa, loved by those who would study mathematics, and stars, seek deep signs and strange matters. Those who, scared of mysteries and shadows, would burn every temple to see better. Those who would grab every grain of sand, and count it, and hope to control the dunes...

One day, Zojhir went back to the Well of Ephia, then Al'Nasr of glorious palaces and minnarets... And he said: "Brother of mine! Let us descend like brothers to where the Waters flow!"

Uspek, trusting, took the Spear of White, and descended. And within the depths our Well Zojhir disrobed. But, lo and behold! His body was mixed with machine, and his heart was now clockwork! For men who'd count the sand, as to control it... Would also measure the heart, so as to not be its slaves.

"Look at me, oh brother", he said. "Look at me, for I am more than I was! Don't I deserve more the Spear, and the Waters? "Am I not more worthy of the Mother's love, being more perfect?"

Upsek, of course, was horrified. As any of us would be. "Brother! Your Wheel-given heart!" he lammented, "What have you done, oh brother?!"

"The heart is naught!", spit Zojhir, "I am more than I was, stronger! For where you move blindly, by your passions, I have lit a torch! The Sun guides me! And if you give me not the Spear, the Waters, the Gods? I shall take them!"

And with that Zojhir launched himself to Uspek who was too horrified to speak, and yet fought as bravely and as noble as he could. He was not, alas, strong enough. Not as strong as the machine-bound arms, not as powerful as the clockwork heart, not as sturdy as those bellow-lungs could be.

So Zojhir pulled and, after much fretting, held the White Spear aloft... And he said: "B'aara!"

"B'aara, crown me! For your gift is mine!"

But he had forgotten one thing, the most crucial and important: the gifts of the Gods can only be gifted, not taken. Thus, the White Spear shimmered with silver light and Zojhir felt burning. Every single metal sliver in his flesh turned white hot, every bolt and gear turned into fire. And with a horrified scream, Zojhir jumped into the waters!

And the Waters boiled!

Zojhir could barely emerge, such was the burden of the fire consumming him. Alas, the wicked endure! But at least, the Spear had fallen into the waters which were now bubbling, now evaporating, raising and raising and dissipating into the air!

And with one last hateful look at his brother, Zojhir turned his back and, in agony, rushed out of the Well, out of the Caliphate! And in pain, locked himself into the iron-works of Qa'im. But so it is that the fire in his flesh is the fire in the flesh of the Qa'immy. And that is why, to this day, the Qa'immy need wash themselves into the holy waters of B'aara, for not even all their heresy and all their power, not all their subtle, wicked science can, in truth, defy the goddess.

As for Uspek? Noble Uspek? Bold Uspek? He watched the Waters evaporate, the Spear sink somewhere deep.

He emerged in a daze as the Well toppled, and minarets fell and temples cracked and the faithful cried for help. Were it not for his Jannisaries, it is said, Uspek would've died there, trying to save someone or another. Trying to mourn their pain.

And so it was that he was brought to Baz'eel, and crowned sultan, and lived but a few scant months before giving himself onto the Twins. For he witnessed the betrayal of his brother, and the loss of the Waters. Which would not return, for centuries upon centuries to be. And on his deathbed said Uspek...

"Once", he said, "there were giants..."

But the hour grows late, and my throat is tired, so I fear we may not finish the Thousandfold Tale this eve. We must drink, then, and we must live, in the hopes of ending it tomorrow...

Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written in our hearts, so its lessons could be always within reach!