The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Finding the Cup

What busy days these have been. As the temperature increases, the Balladeers have found themselves raising the stakes in a rather fun and mischievous way.

First, a Janissary got very focused on litterers and their prosecution, so of course S/r Delafosse went on a littering rampage with his leaflets, while I myself wrote a lovely (and quite catchy) jingle praising their new role in our City: street-cleaners.

Later, pressure was put on Sol Auk after he legalized minor crimes for a night for those with a Voice or rank. Supposedly it was a test, but others (including other of her allies and S/ra Mariet herself) were not so sure. The "test" stopped after a day, with changes annulled, but not before the Princess had descended and a few people had, for the fun of it, done some amusing minor crime.

The day later, we kept pressuring him over his foolishness, using the disgruntled voices at seeing Gellema on the Steele to raise objections to his "one-Legate" dictatorship. I even made a poem on his "record", which I performed in front of him first, and in the Krak later. It was /fun/, such kind of revelry.

And after that, I went off. But as I was out and about, excavating, it seems new Elections were announced, and Rashid al-Rashid raised as interim Legate, to smooth things over. What I found fascinating though is that, while we had been busy mocking and running arround, in the next expedition I went to, we excavated a painting...

A painting of Ephia. With the Cup.


Once, there were a woman and a man.
And they were giants, and they drank deep.
Of the waters, the vapors, the fountains, the wine.
They held court, in a library, for their myriad children.
Smaller, made of their hand.  So eager to learn.

And the man held Scales, to give measure.
And the woman held Cup, to give life.


I'm not a man for signs, or for Fate. But I am a Storyteller, and I know a good motif when I see it. It is not insignificant, that after being distracted by politics, my attention is returned to the Cup in the desert.

Divine Warad, I wish I had some faith. But at least I know many of my colleagues do. This painting may cheer us up.

[Don Nadie]

The Shapes of Their Absence

I am left to do it.

D/a Jamileh is deep in her texts, and perhaps losing her mind. S/r Snorri is wounded and still unable to respond. S/ra Mari sees to have gone into the wilderness of the desert. Even S/ra Pirou I see rarely these days. Maybe its temporary. Maybe it isn't. Maybe they'll join Sana, Leiah. Maybe I've lost them too.

It's up to me, for now. I can't betray their trust, but I can't stop either. I must push forth, look forward and forward and forward. Just keep going ahead, until something happens. To stay in place is death. If you stay in one place, and dwell too much, and think too much, and fear too much, you end up throwing yourself down the cliffs.

Don't throw yourself down the cliff.

Instead, find it. The Foun[The word is scratched, and instead a word added in a foreign tongue]Los Cimientos. El Pajaro. . Find it. For them, who cannot. Use their lessons.

U  S  E               Y  O  U  R              E  A  R  S

And try not to look at the shapes of their absence.

[Don Nadie]

Her Lessons

Foolish, I've been foolish. But then again, that's my Role. But then again, I've been foolish.

I've been looking for El Pajaro. Wandering arround. I've become acutely aware of the amount of things I'm missing, now that she's gone. Her notes were thorough. I made the mistake of not joining in transcribing some things, where she could be trusted to provide the answers. And now there are materials I cannot crossreference, knowledge I cannot access. Partly, it is like starting again. But at least I have all of what she taught me, to help.

She taught me a lot. I've realized that, too.

I went exploring with Mae and Elle. It was a long trip, showing them some sights, protecting them. Using the tricks I learnt from S/r Snorri to keep danger at bay, to defeat whatever we found on our way. I felt reliable. It was good to felt reliable. Then, we were done seeing what Mae wanted to see.  (And what a pitiful sight it was, the wretched supplicants atop their snaking tunnels. I left them some bread. I know they'd do monstruous things, but I couldn't handle their hunger, their sores. I had to do them a kindness). We were gone, anyways, and it was too early to return.

"Have you ever seen the Valley of Wisdom", I proposed. I don't know why. She had promised she'd show me. The Valley. She burnt the paintings Sana made of that place, except the one I rescued. I don't know why, but I wanted to see it. So I took them there, protected them and, when everything was safe, when everything was done...

I translated the ancient glyphs and revealed, to my friends, the secrets of the Past. I discussed with them the implications. I revealed some, kept what I didn't feel they were ready to handle. I think she felt like this. Happy and proud at their little theories. And I translated most with ease. Her lessons served me. I wrote:

"Exhibits VW#1-6". She really taught me well. Perhaps too well.

"Someone has to dig", she used to say. So when it occurred to me I lacked the ability to cross-reference with those runes, when I thought that /maybe/ they held the answer, I travelled alone to that  House. I set the board. I offered a coin to the Seneschal and stated, openly, that I sought only knowledge, and bore no ill-will. I talked with him a bit. Asked. Maybe I shouldn't have asked.

Then I set to work. Slowly translating. Knowledge. Hideous knowledge that seems, so far... Entirely unrelated. Useless. I left, ran back, light on my step, eager to put some road between me and that place. And as the sun shone I feel bound to I stop on my tracks, a weight in my heart. What had I given? What had I left behind, for nothing? The clear sky brought little solace, as I thought of those long, long shadows.

Those runes taunt me. There's a weight in my heart. I do not know what I left. More than a tithe, I fear. I played my role, too perfectly.

But this was her lesson, too. Not to fear knowledge. After all...

Someone has to dig

[Don Nadie]

Danger in the Ramparts

I spent the past day tumbling and turning, my heart clutched by fear, by anxiety. Dread, like a ghost, haunted me.

I saw the Acolytes and the Banda meeting, by chance. By accident, as Sephidra took me to their fortress. I offered my aid to protect the Acolytes, as is my duty, as I /must/ do. They were clearly planning something and the Banda, without hesitation, asked me to leave. They were not rude, not for their standards. They were, however, exceedingly dismissive.

I knew the Jannissaries were planning something, and it wasn't difficult to put two and two together. Less so when, seeking distraction, I travelled to the Ramparts to help the Torchbearers and stumbled, repeatedly, on their plans. Boxes of explosives near the caravan, guarded by Janissaries. Janissaries fighting the Clans in the Har'Saf Valley.

I was anxious. I was anxious as I heard the battle and forced myself not to run to it. I was anxious, and furious perhaps as we got waylaid by one of those large orcan Warband, with a hero at their helm and Heralds praising Agasslaku and Blood Poets writing their foul Art.

My companions ran. I used my tricks. I won, and found them.

I was anxious, I kept looking towards the distant battle, knowing I wasn't wanted. I expected the Janissaries not to want me, for I strive to tease and ping them. I am not surprised that the Banda dismissed me, for they rarely dissimulate their contempt for the College. But the Acolytes not speaking out for me, it hurt.

Their silence, as I was asked to leave, reminded me of my failure. Of the weight of Leiah's body. She was so heavy. So heavy, so heavy.

She still is.






[A note towards the end of the entry, seeming to have been written in the middle of a sleepless night, like a confession.]

I was cruel, when I faced the warband alone. I cut and and cut and cut and cut. I didn't have a jab or a smile, I just did bloody work. One of their archers ran away and instead of letting him go, as I usually do, I took out my sling and broke his nape. I executed their agonizing leader, took his bearskin mantle.

I do not know what I was trying to prove. Or to whom. But the Banda didn't need me to keep them safe. It is I who lost an Acolyte, not them.

[Don Nadie]

Balladeer at Last

My efforts were finally recognized. I am finally a proper Balladeer. It took so long... I endured so many times the question of: "Why haven't you graduated yet?" And while I always said that my heart wore the colors, long before my clothes were dyed, the part of me who is a performer can but desire recognition.

It is not a pretty part. I like to pretend it doesn't exist. But it is there.

The Graduation was deeply enjoyable. Lyrist Beauregard was exceedingly cheerful, and a delight of a man. Lyrist Alois asked me about the best poet in the Well and, before I could think, I said Amelie. There was a lot of laughter, and some honest anger on his part. (I will be the first to admit that he is a much better poet than me, and could teach me much, but I like the sincerity and stricture of Amelie's writing). There was applause, and there were cheers, and hugs.

I was with Edha, there. She, who decided to join the Balladeers when I told her of the ceremony, of the Tribute of the Rose, of the Tale Yet to Be Told. The same ceremony that made me realize I wished to be part of them, and write the Tale with my life and my sacrifices, if need be.

I drank the Drink, twice. I cheered for the Future we shall lead to, for the Past we strive to keep. Acolyte Zvada looked deep into my eyes, and shared her words, and her wisdom. And I am thankful for it, even if I cannot shake the weariness in my heart.

I felt the Drink's pull, but I did not let it draw me. I resisted, and I am... Glad for it. I remember D/a Jamileh's words, her concern. I wish she and Snorri were there, frowning and concerned and saying something thoughtful and tender nonetheless. I wish Pirou had a chance to hug me, and Mari to make fun of me. It was thick, and deep, and pleasant. I felt my mind wandering slowly towards darker places, I felt it. And I had to strive to push forward, to look forward, to move forward.


[A little poem in some odd verse seems to have been added later. It has the stain of a red dropplet.]

Deep, the pull of loss.
Elated, the cheer ringing.
Am I happy yet?

[Don Nadie]

Secrets

Once, a question was asked.
"How many secrets do you hold, to keep others safe?"

And the question was sharp.
And the question was pointed.
And the question was like a spear to the heart.

"How much do you hide, under that performance?"

And an answer gushed out, like blood off a wound.
"Too much", was the answer. To both.

"We'll have a talk", I promised, "with wine".
"I never drink while at work", she said.
"We'll have to cheer afterwards".

[Don Nadie]

On the Many Trappings of Pride, the Pride of Excellency, the Excellencies of Ilusion, the Ilusion of Achievement, the Achievement of Misdirection, and the Misdirection of the Many Trappings of Pride

Oh, to be taken seriously! Oh, how the heart longs sometimes for the reputation of fearsomeness that accompanies others under the banner of the Cinquefoil! Oh, the snicker, how it pinches in the heart, how it tugs at the foulest reaches of the bard's psyche, who can but seek and desire glory! Oh, how the handsome Ballestriere calls the sling "cute", much as it has broken many a neck and saved his life! Oh, how the dwarf calls the dancer weak, even as his shield has held his frontlines and endured through the horrors of his forefathers in twice-tragic Kulkund! Oh, how the mace-wielder smiles, she who would struggle to travel where the explorer dashes and dances! Oh, being rushed out of rooms, as the Acolytes gaze silently and give, with their silence, their aproval! Oh, to be noticed by one's superiors, your efforts praised!

Oh, to be underestimated! Oh, how important it is to be hidden and unseen, so that secret work may remain secret! Oh, the necessity of silence, and joke, and misdirection! Oh, the feint which draws blade to the ground and not the neck! Oh, the illusion which misleads a sibilant army! Oh, the summons which occupy the bugbear horde as the trickster slips behind to cut the neck of their shamans! Oh, the hordes of the Clans, grunting through Old Formoria as the bard does his work swiftly! Oh, the ancient ramparts with ancient bones and the storyteller who reads ancient history, holding the rhythm of his breath so that it may match the boasts of the orcan just next door! Oh, how essential it is, when you lack the strength of the giant, to lean on their pride so as to cause their downfall! Oh, how essential, when you lack the roar of the lions, to have the stealth of the dunecat! Oh, to be noticed by one's superiors, and questions asked!

What does the hero want, if not glory? What does the rogue want, if not to slip away?

And what of the Trickster? What does the Trickster want, hero as he is, rogue as he remains? What is the nature of such feinting Archetype, and its Quest, and its Plot? Oh, the questions demanded of the storyteller! A circle it is, or a spiral, for it seems that it ever turns and turns and it goes ever-downwards!

[Don Nadie]

The Chat

We talked a lot.

We went to the Valley of Wisdom, as is only appropriate for a Balladeer and his cupbearer. She had never seen it, and I find there are few things more interesting than hearing people's reaction to knowledge. You can learn a lot about people from how they react to jest, to gift, or to wisdom. Hers was interesting: the tender, relaxed smile of a mother listening to a child relay his adventures. Even though she had never heard it.

I read to her the inscriptions, for she is far from scholarly. I told her the tale, too. That behind each door there are another three, and so it is with doors, and so it is with people. And she told meanother tale. About a witch. About the difference between deducing the future from the past... And knowing it.

We both understood the meaning of our tales, for it was clear.

The Sisters are old. Their wisdom is ancient, and so must be their archives. She sang an anthem and it burnt into my heart, for we both understood that knowledge is fire, and that not all are ready to handle it. She explained to me things. Small things, what she could. And I, in turn, shared what I could. For there are many secrets we have each vowed to keep hidden from all, and many things that make little sense, if you haven't heard of what came before.

Hours we spent. Hours upon hours.
We started at night.
Pra'jah dawned on us.

We returned, weary but wiser. More aware of our ignorance.

We both forgot about the wine.

[Don Nadie]

Playing Roles

[A little tale, accompanied by the rudimentary drawing of two masks.]


⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⢀⣀⣤⣤⣶⣶⣾⣿⣿⣷⠀⠀⠀Once, there was a simple man from a simple town who was denied a simple life.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀     ⣠⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⣠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀So he made a new home, where he performed many a Role. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠉⠉⠙⣻⣿⡇⠀
⠀⢻⣿⣿⣿⡟⠛⠉⣹⣿⣿⣿⣶⣶⠟⠛⠛⠃⠀⠀⠀The Fool, the Scholar, the Friend, the Child, the Poet, the Guardian, the Teacher,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⢻⣿⣿⣄⣠⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠏⠀⣴⣶⣤⣤⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⢹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠛⠉⠉⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣦⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the Apprentice, the Hopeful, the Hero, the Singer, the Riddle-Maker, , the Courtier
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣿⣿⣿⡿⣡⣴⡞⠀⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⣀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠛⢿⣿⣿⣿⠁⢰⣿⣿⡟⠛⠻⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣤ the Stranger, the Lost, the Seeking, the Page, the Explorer, the Swordsman
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⠛⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣦⣤⣴⣿⣿⠿⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⡀⠀⢹⣿⣿⣿⠃⠀the Waterbearer, the Scout, the Spy, the Cat, the Lorekeeper, the Mourner
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣯⠙⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠁⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⣿⣿⣄⠀⠉⠛⠛⣛⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠀⠀⠀the Storyteller⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⢿⣿⣿⣷⣶⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⠿⣿⣿⣿⠿⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the Fool.⠀

Versatile, he was.
And perhaps he, or others, saw one performance.
And perhaps he, or others, hid many more.
For there are three doors, behind each we open.

"How long have you felt this way?", she asked.
We were in a locked room, warded, closed.
The smell of roses thick in the air.
"Since forever, of course", I answered.
"But it's been harder since Kulkund."
"The Cheerful Boy I once was, ever harder".
She has kind eyes. She just watched me.
"But I am a good performer, yes?"
"Why, I often believe it myself!"

And she sighed, and hugged me.
It is good, to be hugged by a friend.

[Don Nadie]

A First

Duels are, I fear, exceedingly horrid affairs. They always seemed so, from afar. And after participating in my first one, I stand absolutely vindicated in my impression. In a tiny circle, with no maneurability, wasting vials and supplies and anger and skill... Over pride.

Once, there was a Storyteller.
And he had a friend, he felt sorry for a friend.
He tried to cheer her up, for she was prone to melancholy and defeatism.

In truth, I do not know what moved her so. She had been increasingly bothersome since I Graduated. She would scorn me, tell me to wear a helmet, ignore me when I explained it was part of the magic which kept me safe. The magic which allowed me to explore as I must. "You keep hurting your arm", she grumbled. She thought I couldn't lead, when I got hurt.

Once, the Storyteller had some success.
And the friend grew first distant, then demanding.
Owed, she felt, obedience.
And in honor of past friendships, the Storyteller smiled and shrugged it off.
"She has it hard", he told himself. And she did.

At the tunnels, she kept asking for things, and I gave them. Vials, spells, trinkets. She was dour and unkind, but it was fine. But things kept going worse and worse. And when Hypatia and Lynneth left, she was angry and insistent we ought to go on. I didn't want to, and she tried to order me. Neither did Alfred. She kept calling me boy, and ordering me, and ordering me. I had to tell her she had no authority, and to let me be. She pushed. I may have gotten angry.

Once, things went badly. The friend demanded what she could have asked.
"You wouldn't survive my trials", the Storyteller said at last, in anger.
So she raised her fist. And, angry as she was, hurt a she was, she failed to hit.
So she drew her sword, and slashed.
As the Storyteller walked away.
Staying his own anger, on account of what remained of their friendship.

She followed me. She insisted. She kept insisting. And insisting and insisting. Until there was a crowd and she would not attend to reason. Until I couldn't say no, and had to follow her to the arena. She drank all the vials she had not used for us, used all the trinkets. She really wanted to hurt me. Eventually, I chose not to waste. Not for her, not for this. And she won, with ease. Perhaps she wouldnt have won with me trying harder, wasting more. Perhaps would have won regardless. It mattered little, at the time. It matters little, now.

The once-friend chose a little circle.
And fought there, and won.
And turned her cloak, for she was to leave.
And she scowled "What of your Trials, boy?".
Her tone was so hurtful. Once-friend, soured so.
And the Storyller saidwanted to scream.
"Do you think this is the Trial I meant?", he wished to ask.
"Do you think these trials of yours are a Trial of the Balladeers?"
"You walk from contract to contract, in circles, and know not what there is all arround you!"
He wanted to scream: "You have a little circle and call it a life!"

To scream: "I meant the Trials of Mystery and Revelation!"
To scream: "The Trials of Knowledge and Ignorance! Of the Locked Door!"
To scream:  "The Words in the House of Whispers, beneath the sands!"
To scream:  "The Star-Fire-Which-Burns-Wisdom!"
To scream:  "The Breaking of the Axe and the hand behind the Breaking of the Axe!"
To scream of foundations and mists and ears and birds and heads of stone.

To continue: "Knowing this! Carrying this and holding and holding and holding!"
"And hoping madness takes time to root!"
"So that enough can be revealed! So that you can pass it on!"
"So that the Trial is someday ended, and all Doors open and the Garden won!"
He wanted to scream and cry and cry and scream and let all in there know everything they were best ignoring.



But thankfully, he was an exceedingly good performer.

So he took a bow, instead.



[Exits, pursued by Dread]

[Don Nadie]

A Scar

She left a wound. A visible one. "Put some Waters in it for a few mornings", adviced the healer, "and it'll heal in no time". I was going to do it, to put behind this sorry affair.  But this morning, after throwing up, I found myself examining my reflection. The thin line of the rapier I gifted her, as a friend. She was going for my eye, I think. I must've dodged enough that the point of her blade instead pressed into my jaw, and scratched all the way down my neck. I slid my finger all the way down, following the line of the wound.

"A reminder", I thought. And I left it untreated. But I'm not sure what I meant.

A reminder of what, exactly?

Of gifts once given?
Of the trappings of pride?
Of the trappings of friendship?
Of my failings, of hers?

Sing, oh, sing!
Oh, merry Balladeer!
For the road ahead of you
is a road that's full of cheer!
And the ladies, oh...


They love a scar...

"You're so full of shit", she said.

"Indeed", I answered.
"As are we all".

[Don Nadie]

A mist

[A little tale.]

Once, there was a merry band.
And they had suffered a loss.
Thus, in a garden, they sat to gaze upon the roses.
And soften their pain in the glow of each other's friendship.
And as they were chatting the hours away, something happened.
The Priestess seemed concerned.
And from nothing emerged Voices and mist.

And the Cook ran, scared.
And the Priestess sought help.

And the Fool was left, pondering through his knowledge.
Too much to be useful.
Or too little, perhaps.
But he whispered, in secret, to the statue of the once-king:
"Use your ears..."

The statue, however, remained deaf.

I was happy to be examined by Hypatia.                                                                                                             
To know I bear no wicked mark, after what I felt I left behind...                                                                                                             
In the House of Whispers, beneath the Sand.                                                                                                             

I was even happier it was this mist, and not another.
Another which I'd have to write in capital letters.
And which would hold meanings too deep for me to ponder.

[Don Nadie]

A Thesis

[After the more emotional and poetic past entries, this one seems to be something closer to an actual journal]

I am writing a thesis.

If I have to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure why. I think it may be because I've been roaming and roaming. My own notebook is so empty still, it feels so untethered, in comparison with hers. I feel that I need to fill it with all that I'm missing, with the knowledge that I lack, with what I couldn't translate, with the secrets that she kept even from me. That's the only way to do it. There are vast gulfs between each thing I know... Such vast gulfs...

So I am writing a thesis. Because, as I see it, she was right. She always said she was proud to have taught us. There is power, and importance, in helping /others/ understand. And I have seen so much that I notice patterns, as they emerge. The kinds of texts that appear in certain language tell, too, a story. And people need to know more. So many walk blindly, knowing nothing of the world arround them...

Once, there was a merry Fool, roaming
      Roaming and roaming.
            Shining sword and high shield
                  A song on his lips!
                        Few challenges he couldnt meet or avoid,
                              as the mood stroke him,

                                                                                and if I'm always moving, I cannot be stopped.

"I'm so proud"
She used to say that
When she saw us discuss this and that finding
"You will be able to continue our work"
she said
"when I'm gone"

"Don't be grim!"
That was usually my answer
That, and a bright, bright smile.

I'll be dedicating it to her.

[Don Nadie]

A Second

Alfred. My poor Alfred, my friend.

I went after him, thinking it was all a mistake. Thinking he was just scared. I cancelled my show, I ran through the sands. I ended up discovering he had just hid in the Palatial Pyramid. Things kept escalating, with that woman, with the Janissaries, with the idiocy of the Apothar Estellise forcing her way in. And I just wanted to scream for them all to stop, for a second, and to work to help my poor friend.

And then, when we finally got him to speak. He revealed a tragic past and a great sense of cowardice.

He attacked Cosine. He attempted to escape. He took for granted... What? That we'd defend him? Over the damm Accord, broken by his choice? He was evasive, he had been evasive for so long. Then I learnt it was his doing, that Amelie was in her current situation. His doing. He had told us nothing, just run away.

"You should've come after me", he said, "None of you did!"

A spoiled, cowardly child, who endangered the Rose.
Who endangered Amelie.

I took his cloak, sternly. I gave him some of my old clothes, the dashing ones I made for Isabella's date-auction. He looked very handsome on them, bearing those Balladeer colors. Then, I gave him a chance to walk away honorably, and he chose to be brought unconscious.

"You can take me by force",
he said,
"I'll make it expensive, though"

So I flicked my hand and made him fall,
for easy picking.

A trickster still.

Once there were two cloaks, folded.
Folded and waiting.
For they were a token of shame.
And moths nibbled at their fabric.

[Don Nadie]

The Prince of Fear

[A little tale, or the draft for one.]

Once, there was a merry band in Rose cloaks.
And for a party, or an event, they all joined in cheer.
Even those long lost to their rest or melancholy.
"To the desert!", cheered their Master
"To the desert, oh petals of the Rose!"
And to the desert they ran.
Where the skink looks deep into your eyes.

"I shan't go with them", she insisted, the Star, "for they are wicked".
And the Fool tried to humor it.
For they hadn't travelled, he and her, for long.
And this mission seemed ill-suited for the targets of her scorn.

"Spare me your wine and her whine", she answered, the Lion.
The Mountain watched coldly, brimming with anger.
Clearly it meant more  to them than the Fool once realized.
And though they did leave in the end, none were satisfied.
Not even the Star who had flashed, then hid again.

And hours upon hours upon hours were spent.
              Dealing with hurt feelings and broken trust.
                            And pride.
                                          So much pride.
                                                        Everywhere so much pride .
                                                                      Onto so much pride.
                                                                                    An eternity could be spent dealing with this pile of shit
                                                                                                  Where none could show the others an inch of goodwill.
                                                                                                               For the Rose they all said they served

Instead, Kragg shoot Elle
Ancestors spit on him
Hurting a subordinate to make a point
Shame upon his beard!
And shame upon me for thinking him better!

I think that is what convinced me I was wasting my time.
Trying frienship in the first place.

But foes were beaten, so that was something.
A tale to tell of a really big lizard, defeated. Yay!
And merry songs rang from the gardens.