Tales of the Parodyverse

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anonymous re-presents The Dainty Satan Diaries! Volume 1. HUZZAH.
Tue Apr 24, 2007 at 03:10:40 pm EDT
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Posted Once Again On Behalf Of An Individual Hated By The Intranets:
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[Ed. note--the following journals were discovered in a bombed-out catacomb in Territauser, shortly after the war. In terms of age, they definitely aren't forgeries; they've been carbon-dated to the time periods listed in the text. The Ministry of Exotic Antiquity currently has providence over the books, and after further study, some or all will be placed in a crown-sanctioned museum. Please refrain from repeating his name an amount of times that coincides with one of Ornst's meta-numbers--three, seven, nine, twelve, and thirteen. Mirrors and archways should also be avoided while reading.]



[four stain-obscured paragraphs and half a stain-obscured sentence precede] dreadful, just dreadful, I tell you. Lady Parston's dress was utterly ruined in the process, and I was forced to send poor Turk racing along an endless circuit of women's shops, wherein he was verbally antagonized and denied service by stuffy matrons who thought him some sort of clothing-deviant. I must admit, I thought I'd tailored my inner-circle to specialize in all manners of procurement--but I was viewing it through the lens of matters of state and magic, while overlooking a woman's possible needs. At any rate, they eventually managed to put out Lady Parston, and she had only mild burns, though she wailed as if I'd tossed her into a volcano or the like. The dozens (Turk later said it was only two, but they swarmed like dozens, and I'm fairly certain his attention was drained by that slight, raven-haired maiden at the well, so I must believe my own eyes) of volunteer firefighter groups that showed up were no help. Neran Street really should regulate those bucket-swinging buffoons. Everyone gawked at me as if I could make the flames go away, and if I'd been less curious about what the Lady wore under that dress, I probably would have…but the mythology surrounding me simply isn't true. I prefer moderate climes; I have no taste for eternal fire or any of that nonsense.



Suffice to say, after Turk returned empty-handed (and dejected to see that the girl at the well was gone), I took pity on all involved and returned to an old trade of mine--fashion design. It took no time at all to mystically create a new, vastly superior dress, and the much-jiggling, now-sopping-wet Lady Parston was quite relieved to cover her "shame" with something more than a burlap blanket. (O, how I dread this puritan plane. My Nation's dead are more hedonistic than this realm's living! I must remember to send a carrier-vulture through a portal, to see how things transpire in my absence.) Despite the inadvertant fire-setting, she continued to entertain us as guests, however, both out of thanks for the dress and out of an acknowledgement of the reality of her situation. I assured her that the successful capture and de-goblinizing of Lord Parston was still my top priority, and I sent my more polished aides (Turk was quite exhausted from his dress-search) to visit the local ministries and constables, and warn them not to rashly kill any odd creatures they should come about. Most of them already knew not to, as such a creature might be associated with me--or might even be me. I cannot tell you how many sheltered mortals have gotten unnecessarily agitated over my crimson visage. I wish for a time when we can look past color and see the wealth, social stature, and ability to incur unholy wrath underneath, primarily so I can save time when traveling. Explaining the facts of death to some backwater border guard has wasted much of my time, in the past. Perhaps I must sit down with a local broadsheet man, so that the Continent may be as well-informed of me as the Western Isles.





Friday, May 14, 483 C.U.:





Today was spent "multiple-tasking," as the two-headed druids say (but not, alas, as the harem ladies say, which would have been considerably more refreshing), creating world-windows to monitor the town for Lord Parston, while also working on possible cures for his condition. Alas, we still don't know how or why he was turned into a goblin, though my aides have questioned hundreds of townsfolk. I'm afraid that what he suffered affected both his body and mind--even if I should successfully restore his physicality, his brain may still be low-burning. Must remember to dig out my magi-medical texts to research that. Of course, even with a complete cure, there are still issues to deal with, before I can resume my legal proceedings with him. (If only Ladies could sign property documents, here! Blasted "village's rights" mentality. Although…I imagine there's a widow/inheritance loophole. I may be forced to exploit that.) Alas, something just had to interrupt our negotiations. If he somehow did it to himself, I suppose that he'll receive a fine for his presumably unlicensed use of a magical artifact, as they'll want to portray him as a warning to others--this is what happens when amateurs don't concede to the proper authorities, etc. But my hope is that all of that can be gotten around, so he can sign over the caskets, as originally planned.



Lady Parston was distant all day, and I imagine that having my entourage tromp through her home didn't make her feel particularly comfortable. But the inn isn't big enough to hold us, and the nearest castle is much too far away, so her tiny mansion will have to do. Though large by mortal standards, its entirety is roughly the size of my palace's foyer, back in the Nation of the Dead. That said, I've no quarrel with humble lodgings, as I've long been known for my rugged, adventurous spirit. I can only use one wing, you say? No problem, good sir! Of course, aesthetics are one thing, while practicalities are another. To wit, the cooking certainly leaves something to be desired. I've long stressed the importance of both myself and my camp receiving naught but the best foodstuffs. On the next leg of our journey, should I end up being forced to eat any of my aides, I'd prefer them to have been well-fed during the previous weeks. None of this gamey business that goes along with eating populist meat or drinking tavern ale. At least the Parstons have no children--with all that I must accomplish, trying to focus with tiny terrors running about would be nightmarish. (I banished Ireland's little people for just that reason. I'm sorry, but, I'm trying to realign certain laws of metaphysics, here, could you please take your Living in the Shadow of Empire inferiority complex elsewhere? No? Very well, then, I'll take it elsewhere for you. And you won't be in my afterlife, I guarantee that much. Best of all, no more unsightly mounds cluttering up the countryside.)



I was about to go on a tear about a rough-looking man that was giving me the evil eye, yesterday, during the fire incident…but as I write this, I hear the maids splashing about in the pond--it's quite late, and I imagine I'm the only male still awake (Lord Parston is off devouring who-knows-what, and my aides are all exhausted from the day's work of searching for him. Even Turk, nominally my heartiest agent, went down like a baby after his supper), so I believe I'll end today's entry here, and go work on entries of another sort. I do hope that fire-haired goddess that served me tea is among them; her swelling bodice and lithe movements implied a most beneficial coupling.





Saturday, May 15, 483 C.U.:





Distractions! Infuriating, I say! It was obstacle after obstacle, today, which most frustrated me. And roughly half of it can be traced back to Lady Parston herself, I regret to report. It seems that she went out, last night, to visit her Christian sisters and perhaps practice her mourning, should Lord Parston be impaled by some heroic lad looking to impress a shopgirl or the like. I've heard from secondhand sources that there was much "Woe is me!" and much "How am I to prosper, when my husband may be experimenting with magics most subversive and dangerous?" But rather than wear a potential widow's black, she wore the post-fire dress that I conjured for her out of thin air. And while her friends from the cathedral nodded solemnly at her pain, they also examined the fine eye for detail that went into her new garment. So, as soon as the nine bells rang, the mansion was overcome with pawing housewives and those they'd talked to, all wanting me to make them dresses. Though obtaining the caskets was a much more pressing issue, I realized that mortal culture is like the weather--everyone complains, but no-one ever does anything about it. So, I offered a little outside stimulation, to keep their sense of style from becoming extinct. I gave one of my most senior aides, Col. Lindscott (still happily and drunkenly retired from Her Majesty's Army), the task of searching for Lord Parston. He's been quite bored with our recent domestic existence, I believe, and he leapt at the chance to become hands-on with the search, instead of merely directing it from a Lady's salon. (And the local constables have been no help, let me tell you.)



So, I spent the majority of the day doing my part to beautify Hammondsburg, though it's really quite impossible to truly beautify a village with that bad of a name. But before I go further, let me offer a bit of context. I'd created the first dress quickly, and while admittedly distracted by Lady Parston's scantily-clad nature. With more time and focus at my disposal, I produced masterpiece after masterpiece, if I do say so myself. Marie, my new lover, also helped. (To my distress, the redhead in the pond proved to be an utter dullard. I can look past lack of intelligence if something positive offsets it--energy, creativity, curiousity, kindness, exceptionally large breasts. But the redhead had none of those things, while an intelligent, plain-looking-but-mightily-chested brunette--Marie--did. As such, I mystically transferred Marie's consciousness into the redhead's body, as well as switching their breasts, though I removed the freckles and adjusted skin tone accordingly, so they wouldn't look mismatched. The now-brunette wasn't particularly pleased about her new situation, but after a stern talk, she seemed to realize that letting the matter go would assure that she saw her seventeenth birthday.)



At any rate, Lady Parston's mansion was soon surrounded by even more women wanting dresses, as her friends had inadvertantly modeled them at noontime, while going back home to ensure that their children were being fed. Also present were many powders, who offered me all sorts of unwanted advice about ladies' fashion. While I and my Nation are quite enlightened on their kind, and while I'm similarly concerned about style, it's quite presumptive to offer advice to a head of state when one hasn't been asked for their opinion. Also, I must express a healthy degree of skepticism. Are they my rivals in decoration? Absolutely. Are they my rivals in judging what looks good on women? No, I think not. I'm reminded of my old friend Marcello Darkness--brilliant artist, expert magician, related to a line of champions in one of the far realms, celebrated powder--who once painted what he proclaimed was the most beautiful woman ever. Now, the actual painting was masterful, I admit. Possibly the pinnacle of the form. But the woman, I must say, was on the middling side. Had it been a painting of a man, he would have been closer to understanding, I imagine. Between the pestering I received from both the ladies and the powders, I soon tired of my task. I've never been particularly economically-minded--too dry by far--but I saw what the Neo-Voltairites referred to as the Degradation of Mass-Production. The demand exceeded my ability to sufficiently supply. Now, certainly, I could have tossed off dozens of half-inspired designs, and they never would have noticed, due to their unfortunate lack of culture--but I'm above that sort of thing.



So, when I retired for my supper, I was disturbed to see that Lady Parston was nowhere to be found. She was once again spending time with her fellow congregation housewives. I understand that guests can be exhausting, but how many private citizens can say they've entertained the King of the Nation of the Dead in their home? Does the novelty really run out that quickly? Turk suggested a local establishment that offered "high cuisine," though it was a relative term. I was unsurprised to see that his Mystery Maiden from the well worked there in some unknown capacity. (Turk informed me that, strangely, she's amnesiac--she was found and taken in by a kindly local family. No-one knows who she is or where she's from; the family named her.) I used the meal to receive intel from Col. Lindscott, who informed me of a number of false sightings and unfounded rumors. A thespian in a cyclops costume had been cornered by constables (predictably stupid), a low-flying dragon tadpole had sent a neighboring village into a panic, and some manner of apparition had laid siege to the northern ruins. All three had been described as compatible with the creature we were looking for, even though they were nowhere near close. No wonder so many criminals escape justice--human witnesses are as scatterbrained as the common maniac you see in the square.



This was when the day's second distraction sprang out of the shadows. As we were about to begin the final course, a worksman-looking individual stomped into the restaurant and began shouting at me. Something about a curse, his great-great-grandfather, a deal made generations ago…I didn't bother following it. The strangest thing was that he had the audacity to challenge me to a duel. I was tempted to tell him that, as a head of state, I only accept such challenges from titans, fellow angels, giants, certain knights and sorcerers, and (hypothetically) my former employer, but Marie was there, and I didn't want her to think me cowardly. So, despite my superior status and disdain of violence, I accepted. He seemed quite arrogant about the entire thing; I believe he interpreted my lilting voice, foppish manner, and penchance for fur coats as non-masculine "weaknesses." I imagine I've had several dozen thousand more woman than he, and I've reduced many a blustering authoritarian to tears and begging. At any rate, we went out into the street, and we chose swords--some random bystander provided them, and I gave my opponent mine (so he had two and I had none), to make things more fair. As is standard in a duel, we began by addressing each other by our full names…but, though he'd told me his, he didn't know mine. I [illegible] his mind with the information, and that was where things ran into a snag.



You see, I have countless names, titles, positions, honors, culture-specific postmodern interpretations, and so on, and he found himself speaking all of them for the next few hours. He was literally unable to stop talking, even long enough to get a drink of water, which was bad enough, but then his tongue started spasming, as he'd arrived at the other-realm names that humans can't pronounce. After suffering through that, he ended with a name that was quite blasphemous, which caused him to not-so-spontaneously combust. An affront in the eyes of my former employer, all that business. So, as duels go, it was quite anticlimatic. I'd actually started to look forward to it, as I hadn't engaged in fisticuffs since the bridge-trolls unseemly assaulted my carriage-horses. (Turk's maiden was quite beset by this turn of events, and it took much consoling to get her to stop screaming.) It was the second time in three days that someone had been engulfed in flames in my presence, and I fear it shall only further the untrue legends that surround me. Perhaps I should drag those penniless King Arthur hacks out of prison (debt, of course) and force them to create a new tapestry, which injects me into their story and portrays me in a positive light.





Sunday, May 16, 483 C.U.:





Casket-purchasing day has arrived! Huzzah! I should have put Col. Lindscott on the Lord Parston task sooner, as he carried out the search in a much more efficient matter than I. He employed what I believe is called a "grid-based" search, and bribed some young loiterers into service, to increase the number of bodies at our disposal. With my short-lived fashion career over (a courier came on behalf of King Whoever-He-Is, wanting dresses for his wife and wildebeast-resembling daughters, but I denied him, and the courier seemed quite nervous about the prospect of the messenger being killed), I was able to assist in the successful capture and curing of Lord Parston. The property-transferring contract was signed, Turk returned with a promise from his amnesiac maiden, no ill diplomatic will came about after my aborted duel, constables were saved by my very own self, and I joyfully sodomized both Marie and Lady Parston. Again, huzzah, I say! Huzzah! It may technically be my former employer's day, but I prevailed nonetheless.



Let me go back to earlier in the day. After another morning of ugly food and world-window-watching, with the courier interspersed between the two, I had a brief communique with my homeland. Instead of having to use a carrier-vulture, I discovered that one of Lady Parston's mirrors had once been enchanted, and I was able to revive its magics in order to directly contact the Nation of the Dead. I learned this through casual conversation with Marie; she hadn't realized how relevant it was. How many fortunes and wars have been lost through the awkward exchange of information? I must put aside my respect for privacy and rape minds more often, I'm sad to say. Via the mirror, I spoke to both Steward Dramicus and Ami Il-Ayla--Dramicus briefed me on minor matters of state (nothing particularly eventful has occurred during my time on the lower planes), and Ami assured me that Dramicus was telling the truth, and that he was a most excellent Steward. I don't know why I worry so much--as Ami said, "We're dead. What can happen?" I understand there were some annoying territorial issues with an avian kingdoms, though. I mentioned it to Turk, who had forgotten all about that aspect of things. No, I don't live in some hades-like cavern…as my former employer's book (which, I'm pleased to report, continues to get little in the way of critical acclaim) says, I'm the Lord of the Air. Yes, light and airy, that's me. My Nation is up in the higher planes; the celestial realms. Turk became distressed as to how he'd get up there--I promised him a visit and future home, if he so chose--but I told him not to fret. I didn't have the heart to tell him that no living beings are able to access this plane, which shall force me to make certain changes to his self before he can access it.



It was when I was about to begin my third conference with the palace that one of my aides burst in, frantic and happy. Some young urchin, in the process of grid-searching, had located the monstrous Lord Parston, who was sleeping in a field shortly off the Bline Road. I immediately fetched my carriage, and arrived just in time to stop some overeager constables from killing themselves by provoking him. I saw that he'd been transformed into a goblin along the lines of the Syron subspecies, all jowly, grey-skinned, and possessing three horns. By this time, he was awake, sitting up and yawning loudly. Though his awareness seemed dimmed, the change hadn't made him malevolent. He was still his same old self, complaining about how difficult it was to manage his estate. I engaged him on this topic, while Col. Lindscott's men flanked us and took up a perimeter. Better safe than sorry and all that. I asked him how he'd done this to himself, and he confessed to buying an artifact from a street-dealer. I admit to worsening the situation, here, as I chastised him at length on the dangers of unsafe magics. Always use a licensed store or at least consult someone you know to be [water-damage covers up the remainder of the sentence]. He became agitated with my posturing--I can be overbearing, I know--and leapt to his feet, apparently ready to charge. I reactivated his logical mind by asking him why he'd bothered with magic in the first place. He then said something that posed a brand new problem--he'd been trying to create a new, better wife, as Lady Parston hadn't touched him in months, and hated him for some unknown reason. The woman who'd sold him the artifact had apparently double-crossed him. At least, that was the conclusion I came to, being a master at that, myself. He agreed to go home peacefully. Upon our arrival, Lady Parston was stoic about her husband's state.



As I'd expected, curing his body was the easy part. His mind remained somehow different, and he fell ill to severe headaches and delusions. This quite agitated me, as I needed his brain in one piece, in order for him to sign the papers. I confess, I briefly considered turning him back into a monster, as he'd been more lucid in that form…but I'd already come halfway, and I figured I might as well finish the job. While I worked on possible cures, I discreetly carried out two conversations. First, I asked Marie about any local establishments that Lady Parston visited. She informed me of a bakery that Lady Parston greatly relied on, which didn't surprise me, given her cook's insufferable handiwork. I then dispatched Turk to visit it, and gave him specific questions to ask, as well as a warning to not stray from his path. I told him he'd have time to spend with his maiden tonight. With much effort, I managed to lessen Lord Parston's pain--and by the time I'd accomplished that, Turk returned with valuable information. As requested, he'd asked the bakery's owners if they knew where he could obtain anything having to do with magic. After some initial suspicion, they realized it wasn't a crown trap (I chose Turk not only because of his reliability, but because he looks the part of a scruffy, streetwise lad who might need some mystical help to get out of a dangerous situation), and told him of a woman who supplied magics to all the upper-class congregation housewives. But they said she should only be used in emergencies, as she tended to be bad at keeping secrets. This fit with my newly-minted theory perfectly.



After assuring myself that Lord Parston would remain stable, I went to Lady Parston--privately, of course--and sat her down for a talk. I informed her that I'd figured out what she'd done. The magic-dealing woman had gossiped to one or some of Lady Parston's Church friends, and they'd shared the story with the Lady herself: a wealthy husband wanting to create a new, more amenable wife. She figured it out, and approached the dealer, offering her a more profitable arrangement. The dealer would sabotage the creation magic (portraying it as a genuine mistake), turning him into some sort of monster and rendering him an outcast. She knew I was coming to make a deal over the caskets, and she figured I'd volunteer my services to capture and cure him, to ensure that I obtained them. He'd learn his lesson about messing with the natural order of things (as if magic were somehow unnatural--it's not man-made, now, is it, dear hearts?), and he'd be happy with his regular life. She admitted to all this, of course, as she hadn't wanted him to be in pain--whereas he now was (though lessened by my treatments), which she wasn't prepared for.



Just when I thought I had the whole scheming mess sorted out, I had what I can objectively describe as a flash of genius. I rushed back to the wing loaned to me and, on the spot, cured Lord Parston completely. (He was so exhausted from the pain that he spent hours resting, which bought me time.) I then summoned the magic-dealing woman and plucked information from her mind, which fit with my minutes-old realization. With that, I confronted Lady Parston for a second time. I informed her that the reason her husband's mind had been ill was because of false memories, implanted by magic. I reminded Lady Parston of the amnesiac maiden that my associate Turk had been oh-so-awkwardly romancing, and then I told her (that is, Lady Parston) that her paranoia had gotten the better of her. It was someone else's husband who'd requested a new wife--the maiden, actually an unknowing mystical construct, was due to be "heroically" saved by a recently-divorced gentleman that the Parstons didn't even know, so she'd fall in love with him and marry him. The dealer woman had seen a way to turn a profit from Lady Parston's mistaken assumption--not only did she turn Lord Parston into a monster, she made his mind believe what Lady Parston thought was true, to add credibility to the ruse.



Ugh! This legal/Church-approved monogamy business is unnecessarily convoluted. And they wonder why I insist it's unnatural--it warps the mind something fierce, I'm afraid.



Lady Parston then went on what I can only describe as a guilt-bender--she'd caused all this pain for her husband, when he'd done nothing wrong--and I was forced to endure much weeping and the like. Ironically, her eyeliner and chemical blush were undamaged by the waterworks, while mine were somehow smudged by proximity to her tears. At any rate, I ensured her that I wouldn't reveal her secret, provided that certain conditions were met. His mental pain would be portrayed as a lingering side-effect of his transformation. Once she regained her composure, she allowed me to conquer her--I'd expected her to be hesitant and possibly sobbing throughout the act, but she threw herself into it, as I'd seen her darkest side and didn't hate her--and shortly after that, she reunited with the now-alert Lord Parston and encouraged him to sign the caskets over to me at a lesser price, as thanks for a job well done. They retired to their bedroom (I believe he was too weak to do any conquering of his own, so her mysterious tiredness would not be noted), I had my aides load both caskets into one of the extra carriages (Turk demanded to know who or what was in them, but I instructed him to fetch his maiden, which got him off the subject), I engaged in what might be described as a victory lap with Marie, and I ran a midnight errand.



After such a busy, complicated day, I really should have been content with my victories. But, one aspect of things still disquieted me. The gentleman that had originally commissioned the creation of Gwyn--Turk's young maiden--had reminded me of my former employer's egomania. I can be accused of many things, but at no point have I created an individual, let alone an entire species, whose sole purpose is to love and glorify me. While the lower classes vex me from time to time, I'm a firm adherant of the Amended Magna Carta, and slavery has always been gauche, frankly. At any rate, I located the gentleman that had wanted his very own mystically-artificial love-slave, told him about the downfalls of masturbatory people-creation, and informed him that Gwyn would be coming with my party. He was quite agitated over this development, and it occurred to me that this was one instance where the infliction of shame was actually appropriate. (Ironic, I know, given my dislike of the Church's shame-peddling ways.) This "gentleman" was a wealthy man with much livestock and property, and a most delicious revenge stormed into my mind. I made it so a glowing sign (able to be read in all languages, and even by those who can't read) hovered over his head, with an arrow pointing down at him. The sign said, "Please remind this man that 'moo' does not mean 'yes'." Watching him scamper about, trying to escape from the sign, while simultaneously putting on hats (only to find out it did no good) was quite an amusing way to spend the first half-hour of the new day.





Monday, May 17, 483 C.U.:





Good-bye, marital conspiracies! Good-bye, blandly-named village! Good-bye, warring fashion industry factions that all claim to carry on my legacy! Good-bye, my dear Marie! (I've empowered and awakened her, and she'll surely go on to bless the naïve local boys. I also gave her my fashion money and told her to invest in silk, as my alleged fashion disciples will be using it quite heavily.) The Parstons are now naught but waving, distant figures far behind our little convoy (things seemed quite cold between them, alas, but even I can't do everything), the caskets are secured, Turk and Gwyn and enthusiastically copulating in the rear carriage (Gwyn was shocked to learn of her true nature, but I assured her that being human was vastly overrated, and promised her a life of adventure and exploration), and we're headed due northeast, towards the Timberlands. This is Col. Lindscott's homeland, and he spent all of breakfast praising its endless pine forests, stone-filled grey rivers, and excellent hunting bounty. (I, myself, do not engage in that sort of blood-sport. I understand how it can be done to support one's family, but for "fun"? A man once asked me, "Why do you not wish to come hunt with us?" I said, "Fortunately for your species, I'm firmly opposed to slaughtering inferior beings for pleasure.")



Today was particularly dull, I'm afraid to report--travel-days usually are. But it gave me a chance to write yesterday's lengthy journal entry, and I monitored Turk's activities and instructed him on poise and form. I shall wait to open the caskets until we're further away from populated areas, in case my old colleagues are in a bad state of mind.





Tuesday, May 18, 483 C.U.:





I slept in my carriage, and I woke up to fog, rain, a looming ocean of greenery, and ruins of familial halls. Though we're quite distant from the Far North, this region seems oddly similar to it. The log-based architecture--as well as Col. Lindscott's description of his people--reminds me of those wonderfully-liberal vikings that live in tundra towns and volcanically-tropical villages. Almost everything is legal, there, don't you know! They practically sainted me, after the Gogmagog affair. As further proof, what few Timberlands folk I've seen thus far (usually cutting down a tree here or there) look just like my favorite vikings--pale skin, pale hair, frighteningly dark blue eyes. The only establishment we've encountered was a tavern of some sort, and they fed us for free, as tribute. I then saw that these people are more stout and rural than my beloved isolationist vikings. There was only one woman present (Gwyn notwithstanding), she was the barmaid--a "lusty wench," I believe the excessively-inebriated Col. Lindscott called her. Most spectacular cleavage. Though the décor was rustic, it had most well-done music, if not music fitting to my personal taste. It was none other than a strain of the death-elegy, long favored by morose and/or angry teenagers from the more mountainous regions. The band consisted of strings, flutes, an odd harp, and a quite well-tuned piano. Now, the Far North did go through a phase where the death-elegy was popular, long ago. Likewise, it was more rural, then. Perhaps the Timberlands is on the same social path, but not as far along? The band seemed disappointed that I offered them only technical praise--despite my status as King of the Dead, I'm afraid that dark, dystopian music does nothing for me. I prefer bright and cheery material, though that's mainly in theory, as the actual stuff tends to be formulaic and unnecessarily traditional. (And let me say that the food was above-average for a common eatery.)



Though the good Colonel had done much to fill me in on the region's history, I'm afraid that he's been away for so long--and absorbed so much information about other lands, as they were theaters in his military career--that much (perhaps most) of the information was crowded out of his mind, and what little remains has faded from its original state. I had little time to focus on this, however…as tends to happen during down-time, my aides were abuzz with questions. Who or what are in the caskets? Why are we in the Timberlands? Why are you having this extended tour of the mortal plane at all? I informed them that one and a half of their questions would be answered by tomorrow morning and resumed eating my veal. Now that we were safely away from the Parstons, there was much discussion about how they'd come to posess the caskets--odd-looking, obviously ancient jobs--in the first place. There was much speculation that Lord Parston's ancestors had been great heroes of antiquity, a subject which I did not weigh in on. I resumed my interest in the region's background, and then decided that I must take advantage of the communal knowledge available to me. I've long been a proponent of both spreading information throughout a community and using the collective knowledge of those around me. (I'm no information-hoarding monk that wishes to keep the major works all in Latin! Feh! Go straight to the source, I say; reliance on mediums like priests and public readers is dangerous.) For more obscure subjects, yes, a dusty old book is the best bet, but for local business, oral history is more plentiful. And the Timberlands had virtually no documentation or cartography to its name. (Though I'd managed to get 'hold of a rough, amateur-explorer map of the area.) Despite being a scant thirty miles from the larger villages, that sort of thing simply hadn't come here.



After the meal, my gambit began. By then, we'd attracted quite a crowd--in addition to the tavern's employees, patrons, and the visigoth minstrils, some random bystanders had stumbled in to get a glimpse of the strange visitors. (Well, strange visitor, singlular, I imagine. My aides are either human or at least look human.) Upon verifying a piece of intelligence that Col. Lindscott had given me--that the Timberlands were not under the province of any one government, but that different sections were controlled by different countries (and sometimes the Church)--I launched into it. Sad to say, I had to withhold certain things from this gathering, as well as my own aides. I instructed Turk to fetch my map-canister, and the Timberlands were laid out on our cleared table. (Mercifully, the buxom barmaid had to bend over to wipe it clean. There was much fleshy gyration! Huzzah!)



I told them a technical truth: I wished to avoid territories having to do with the Church and with kingdoms that my Nation hadn't signed a treaty with. Could they please tell me who controlled which areas? The first iteration of the map went down quickly--though sometimes ignorant of the outside world, these folksy Timberlands folks were experts on their home. And as I'd hoped, they gave me more information than I'd seemingly bargained for. One would say that the area east of this river and south of those hills was controlled by the Western Isles…but no, another would remember that that was how it used to be, but now, it was controlled exclusively by the Spanish crown. Such confusion led to additional information about the chronological passing-down of the various territories. I discreetly jotted down these backstory details on a copy of the map, and only Turk noticed; he wisely said nothing. I kept my adorable ears open for any territory whose province was vague, and any territory whose province they could not remember. If what I'm looking for is, indeed, in the Timberlands (as I suspect it must be), it shall most likely be in a suspicious territory. Hopefully those inside the caskets shall provide me with further insight. (If they don't, I shall be quite embarrassed, as that means I put up with the Parston melodrama for nothing.)



I was about to mark the affair as a mild step forward when my extraordinary luck struck again. No, the barmaid's breasts didn't pop free while she scampered about serving unappreciative loggers--a lone boy, who'd somehow ended up in the tavern, gave me a key piece of information. (While my moral standards are quite sanely relaxed, I must say, a tavern is no place for a child. The clientele was most vulgar and rude, and if not for my presence, I suspect they could have been violent, as well.) He remembered a territory that was, in fact, rarely thought of as its own territory; it was usually lumped in with an area overseen by what he called the Clocksmen. (Those artificial Swedes that seceded, migrated here, and sealed themselves off in a protective energy-bubble by trapping the power of time within their gears.) He said he'd seen a village there, and that it was so deep within the Timberlands that none bothered to rob or conquer it, so it needed no protection. I was immediately skeptical, as I knew that the only thing protecting these rural peoples from larger forces was when other larger forces watched over them (in exchange for taxes, of course)--distance matters not to the truly evil. But I kept my tongue still and absorbed the information as if it were no important matter.



When the time came to move on, I had two final questions: is there any structure nearby that would be noble enough to hold my party, and would one be willing to guide us to it, and to act as our guide in general? (By this point, the good Colonel had passed out, and was snuggling with a stuffed, grey-and-black wolf that the tavern's owner had bagged.) There were some frightening mumblings about, predictably enough, a haunted castle. It was apparently a relic from when the Timberlands actually had its own king. I quite liked the idea of having a decently large building (though tiny by my Nation's standards) all to myself, for a few days. Though I offered a considerable sum for the role of my guide, superstition won out over materialism--until the barmaid glanced back at the kitchen, saw the dishes she'd be required to do, and laziness and the desire for adventure overwhelmed her fear. Huzzah! Thinking realistically, I forced the owner to promise not to fire her, for taking this time off. And to further help win him over, I offered him a guarantee: should he ever die and end up in my Nation, I shall see to it that he was made most comfortable. Likewise, if he acted rashly against her, the opposite would occur. There must have been something magical (not literally) in my delivery of that promise, as, when his color returned and he stopped shaking, he agreed most hastily.



Not knowing how long we'd be gone, she loaded up her possessions, which numbered few. (Among them were some quite intricate, interesting wood-carvings, however. She said it was merely a hobby.) Though I have a number of carriages, storage-space was becoming limited, and I was forced to require Turk and Gwyn to ride in the carriage that contained the caskets. I assured them that they'd be perfectly safe, and encouraged them not to think of those inside as dead, since I'd be resurrecting them upon our arrival at the castle. Both of them appeared quite tired from their conjugal activities of the past day or so, and I'm fairly certain they fell asleep and ceased to care about the others sleeping in their presence. Tessa (the now-identified barmaid) rode with the semi-conscious Colonel and myself. Before we left, I instructed my drivers to be on the lookout for spies--they always know to be aware of their surroundings, but, given who I'm searching for, I fear they may find me, first.



As I write this, we've been traveling for nigh-on ten hours. Midnight is fast approaching. We've passed the occasional village (usually little more than a tavern and a few familial halls), logging camps, and, once, a dark, monolithic cathedral. For a religion supposedly based on the light of the world, my former employer's buildings are certainly gloomy affairs. Yes, let's add a few dozen gargoyles and make the entire thing look like a gulag of the Steppes! But, I try to focus on the more positive aspects of life, which Tessa is currently helping with. (Col. Lindscott has crawled into the hidden sleepaway and curled into a fetal position.) She's asleep sitting up, directly across from me. Like most of the rest of her people, she has white-blonde hair (down to her waist) and a ridiculously fair complexion. Unlike most of the rest of her people, however, she has greyish-white eyes that are unlike anything I've ever seen, even in the higher planes. I can't complain for variety of women, on this journey--while Gwyn is petite, with her short, curly black hair and girlish looks, Tessa is decidedly mature, though only several years older than Turk's favorite maiden. It's not just the ripe bosom, it's in all of her movements and behaviors. She mentioned that she often helped her father and brothers with logging, before she moved out and took her current job, and she does a lot of carrying things around at the tavern, so she has a most well-exercised body. Her muscles aren't as exaggerated as, say, those of the Amazons, but there's a flexing tautness that strains under her tip-attracting dress. According to her directions, the castle is still several hours away. She's beginning to rouse, and I've thought of many appealing ways to spend the time…





Wednesday, May 19, 483 C.U.:





It was rather ridiculous, I admit--we made it all the way to the castle, but it was so late that we continued to sleep in our carriages, despite the more spacious surroundings that were available to us a mere ten meters away. I, as ever, was the first to wake, and in the daylight, I was disappointed with what I saw. The castle was naught but dreary grey ruins, with turrets shattered on the ground and all manners of pestilent creatures running wild throughout it. So, before the others awoke, I went to work. A series of quick spells transformed the castle into a glittering marvel. The exterior and interior walls were pink, the floors were navy blue marble with "neon" blue veins, and there were columns and drapes and wonderful paintings that I mystically redistributed from far-away capitalists. I conjured several crystal fountains that fed into an indoor stream, which was full of dolphins. Remembering the wonderful times I'd had in Roman bathhouses (a memory which came about quite naturally, due to the caskets), I included several such heated wonders in my own castle. (It pales in comparison to my palace back home, but for a temporary residence, it's quite sufficient.)



Though I'd made the castle for admittedly selfish reasons, it was a spectacular morale-booster for my men. Ahh, how material things can cheer the human spirit! (I myself am worldly, but not a materialist--there is a difference. I did what I did not because I wanted a class-symbol, but because I wanted the castle to mirror my own intrinsic grandeur. Also, the bathhouse will make my second act with Tessa all the more interesting. Water enables many positions that most never see in their Indian picture-books.) After several hours of what can only be described as frolicking in their new surroundings, my men remembered my promise to reveal various secrets to them. After parking our carriages in the castle's stables, transporting the caskets into a most secure hidden room, bathing the road off of us (Tessa, not shy at all due to growing up with four brothers, insisted on bathing with us men, and I took her in full view of them, which both she and they loved), and dragging the hung-over Col. Lindscott into a puffy-mattressed bed, the time had at last arrived. For their own safety, I had my aides and the women stay in another room, while I examined the caskets for any failsafes or traps. These non-Egyptian sarcophagi are often rigged in such ways. I'm sad to say that, while the caskets may once have been great works of art, they'd eroded so much that the colors and statue-like topography were barely present.



Upon confirming that they were harmless, I levitated the lids off (the caskets were stone, rather than metal, so there was no rust, but the lids still stuck mightily) and resurrected those inside. Normally, it'd take at least a half-hour to accomplish this--regenerating the body is simple enough, but drawing the spirit back into it can take some effort, as spirits have a tendency to wander far-off. However, these caskets were designed to trap the spirit within them, as both individuals feared ending up in my kingdom. In their elderly days, these men spent much time in their future coffins, not wanting to risk dying out in the open. While they stirred, I called in my party, and informed them that they were in the presence of Brutus of Troy and Romulus--the founders of Britain (what most call the Western Isles) and Rome, respectively. They're distantly related. Those two gentlemen were quite shocked to see me, let me tell you. I reminded them of the deals we made, long ago. I helped create their Empires, and in return, they were to do certain things for me…but when they learned that that agreement would transcend their mortal lifetimes, they lost heart and tried to cheat me. Yes, that coffin trick was nice, lads! Keep your spirit contained and out of my reach, have your men hide the sarcophagi so I can't find them…Brutus did it first, and then Romulus copied him, many generations later. Ahh, well. I was almost sad to tell them that the game had ended.



Though it wasn't one of my main quests, I did devote much time to it, over the milennia. I searched through hidden cities in Asia, giant-filled burial grounds in the Holy Land, dragon-guarded fortresses in the Western Isles, the half-submerged ruins of Atlantis…but the two caskets I sought ended up in an utterly boring upper-middle-class village, and were mistakenly identified as statues and stuffed in a basement corner with unwanted gifts. (How they came to be together, I'm not entirely certain. Lord Parston told me that his great-great-grandfather had found them in some African war.)



Unfortunately, immediately after awakening, both men went into advanced states of panic. Brutus eventually drew into himself, while Romulus raged and attempted to escape. Turk gave chase to the burly Romulus, who backhanded him clean across the room--since his father was Mars, the god of war, he has far more power than any human. (Brutus, on the other hand, is utterly ordinary. Mars came into their family tree from the outside, hundreds of years later.) This angered me, and I used magic to inflict a great deal of pain upon Romulus, for a significant period of time. After Romulus had unwillingly emptied both his tear-ducts and his bladder, I offered him the choice of tea or continued suffering, and he wisely chose the tea. It occurred to me that both men would need some time to adjust to their new situations, and I proclaimed that the rest of the day would be given to rest. (We needed it, as well--travel and sleeping in carriages is not beneficial to one's energy-level.) As a precaution, I assigned fealty spells that would prevent the two of them from attacking my party, which I really should have done in the first place. Turk is fine, however--bruised up, but his will remains unbroken. He's convinced that it was a lucky shot, and that with the element of surprise no longer in his enemy's favor, he'd be able to account for himself much more heroically, as he did when he stymied that escaping blacksmith-gremlin in Iceland. Exact quote: "I been hit harder'n that, sir. For a half-god, he ain't all that much."



(I made sure that his room had a double-bed, though I imagine a single would suit Gwyn and he just as well, given how slim they both are. It's only a matter of time until some concerned puritan bystander demands to know why a nubile lass is traveling in the company of many older men, one of them a drunkard and one of them allegedly the ultimate evil in the universe. Trifles! I imagine it wouldn't be wise to tell them that, no, despite appearances, she isn't fifteen--to Turk's sixteen--she's actually a mystical creation that's maybe a few months old at best, though she was gifted with maturity. Her energy/artificial nature fascinates me; she may be quite useful at some point in the future. And, yes, she is beautiful, but I shan't touch her. I'm thrilled that Turk has found someone new; after what happened with that Persian princess, I'd feared he'd closed his heart off for good.)



So, we've all retired to chambers, and I've begun reviewing the information collected in the tavern. With my two favorite civilization-builders at my disposal, I imagine I'll find who I'm looking for in no time.





Thursday, May 20, 483 C.U.:





There's nothing like a rude awakening to begin one's day. Bah! A nude Tessa shook me awake, the now-sober Col. Lindscott standing in the doorway. He said that we were surrounded by some sort of army, that an avian diplomacy group had teleported into the castle and was demanding to see me, and that our old friend Raggedy Anders had arrived and was literally swinging on the chandeliers in the dining hall while clutching a knife between his teeth, and could I please put aside my mystery quest and deal with one or more of these situations?



A glance out the window revealed that the mortal army was a mere two or three thousand strong, so they received low priority. I politely requested that Col. Lindscott go address them and find out what their particular problem was. He seemed quite reluctant to do this in his Union Jack nightgown, so I mystically changed him into his usual attire and told him not to worry about getting killed, as I could fix that easily enough. I then dispatched dear Tessa to find Turk, as he'd had success in reasoning with Raggedy Anders in the past, due to their East End life-of-crime experiences. (Granted, Turk's illegalities were minor affairs geared towards survival, while Raggedy Anders is what the alienists have deemed a sociopathic adventure-addict.) Knowing that the higher planes matter most, I dressed and went to address the avian group. I'd forgotten all about the territorial issues between our countries, frankly. Despite that pressing issue, my mind was consumed with the mystery-military outside, as I feared that my targets had figured out my plan.



Surely enough, diplomats from [unable to be translated, different alphabet system used] were waiting for me in a lush sitting room. There were four of them, three men and one woman. As with the rest of their people, they were grey-feathered, with some crimson and black lines and tufts here and there, and non-beaked humanoid faces. Their eyes remind me of the Orientals. Forsaking my usual polite amenities, I began by stating that it was quite rude to show up unannounced. They assured me that it was an emergency. A spartan people, the [again, unable to translate] do not take me seriously because of my decadence, I believe. And also because of my makeup. As if the ancient Egyptians, one of this plane's most advanced civilizations, did not encourage both sexes to practice such personal beautification habits. Nonetheless, I heard them out in patience. It seems that some part of the metaphysical border between our parallel realms must have broken down, as the physics of death are leaking into their quite-alive kingdom, causing what the leader of their group described as public health issues. I was quite pleased to see that their normally-warlike race was taking an interest in domestic matters. I've long pressed upon the Western Isles and the various countries of the Continent to address such threats, but it wasn't until the plague that they listened to me, and by then they were so decimated that they didn't have enough people to properly staff such an office. Now that they're healthy once again, they've resumed ignoring me. Were I more like my former employer, I'd work up a new plague just to teach them a lesson.



Unsurprisingly, paranoid as they are, they accused my government of incompetent managing of the border. I can honestly say that no such incident has ever occurred due to anything controllable on my part. Whether I've been there in-person or not, the restrengthening magicks have been consistently applied, to keep my nice little mini-universe sealed off from the rest of reality. I had my own theories as to how the border had been fractured, but I kept mum, assuring them that I'd see it was looked into immediately. This did not entirely please them--I believe they wanted an apology or a guarantee--but, not having enough information on the situation, I refused to rush things. I informed them that I was on holiday, and how would they like it if I interrupted their holiday? Steward Dramicus is more than capable of speaking for me in my absence. I also told them that before anyone assigns blame, either my Nation or theirs must actually find the breach, so we can figure out what happened. It was at this point that I had some difficulty in extricating myself from the meeting, as they seemed immobile, still waiting for some concession on my part. I casually mentioned that Raggedy Anders was in the building, and would they like to have tea with him? That got them moving--they made some vague threats, taking off through the skylight that they'd entered from.



After that, I fairly raced through my two-day-old castle, searching for the creature that had prompted them to leave. While in the process of doing so (I don't know why I didn't just use a locating-spell), I decided to check in on Brutus and Romulus, which is when I found him. As ever, Raggedy Anders was the height of a short adult human, but built rather like a spider-monkey--inhumanly skinny, with long limbs and a small torso. He was once again a ragdoll, after a brief experiment with being "real." His skin was light tan sackcloth, his blood-splattered sailor suit was white, and his hair was springy red yarn that looked rather like a mop. Brutus was on the floor, one leg twitching. Raggedy Anders clutched a scimitar in one hand, which he'd used to corner a bloody-nosed Romulus. Turk, still shaky from his injuries, was reduced to standing a short distance away and pleading with him to stop. By no means was it cowardice; a human is wise to stay out of a confrontation between a godling and a mass-murderer. Turk's pain-induced hesitancy may very well have saved his life. I figured out what was going on fairly quickly, and realized my tactical mistake: like myself, Raggedy Anders was quite protective of Turk, and upon seeing Turk's still-bruised state, would naturally want to inflict harm on his attacker.



As violence comes extremely casually for Raggedy Anders, I treated the matter lightly, addressing him as if we were sitting down at a table together. He ignored me. I then informed him that this man had already paid for what he'd done, and that he was a valuable source of information for me. He ignored me. So, I was forced to use authoritarian, patriarchal language to subdue him, which is something I disdain. He needed to show me respect in my house, etc. Some only respond to forceful statements, rather than logic, which is why this plane can get into such trouble. Apparently noticing me for the first time, he dropped his scimitar on the spot and turned to greet me. In the same moment, Romulus snatched it off the ground and swung it at him. Raggedy Anders caught the blade harmlessly in clapped hands, kicked the godling in the groin, and hit him in the back of the head with the bottom of the sword's handle. Standing over the prone Romulus, he attempted to get the man's trousers off, to teach him a prison-inspired lesson, but I prevented things from going further. After beginning a tirade about the latest set of Crusades, he was interrupted by Tessa, who burst in and told me that a spear had ricocheted off the outer wall--she'd been watching things from a safely-armored turret.



One second later, the four of us reappeared by the side of Col. Lindscott, out in the daylight. I brought the spear to my hand. A sweaty-foreheaded Col. Lindscott introduced me to General Calen, who was standing on the body of a rolling catapult. He said that this area of the Timberlands was under the province of the German Alliance, and that my creation of what he called a fortress could be considered an act of war. I informed him that the claiming and restoration of abandoned property was perfectly legal in the Amended Magna Carta, a document that, I did not hesitate to point out, their nation had had some difficulties with. I then stated that attacking my home--even with just one spear--could be considered an act of war, as well. After that, I silently instructed Col. Lindscott to sit down on a nearby tree stump, as he looked like he was about to faint. Granted, he'd been facing down an army with no-one beside him, until we arrived. I've never been one for armed guards or the like, which leads sight-reliant mortals to assume that I'm somehow vulnerable. At any rate, the secret--not that I tried to conceal it--was out. If the good General knew I was here, then surely the news had spread throughout the land (not to be egotistical, but, I imagine I'm the biggest thing to have happened to this place in some time), and those I was searching for had to have been tipped off. But they've been hiding for milennia, and if they were to attempt to escape, it would only risk exposure. The short of it was that I didn't have to handle things discreetly, though I certainly tried, out of politeness.



Holding the spear the wrong way, I extended its handle in the direction of the General. I told him that if he or one of his men came and took it, I'd consider the act of war withdrawn. If not, I couldn't guarantee that their nation would exist by sundown. This prompted much murmuring, both anxious and angry. The General had a confab with some unseen colleagues. When he popped his head into view once again, he said that he believed I was bluffing. I rubbed the bridge of my nose--so very predictable. Yes, I have no military of my own, surely that means I'm helpless. I said, "Very well." For their own safety, I teleported Turk, Col. Lindscott, and Tessa back into the castle. Raggedy Anders took a step forward, but I held him back. If it was a show these mortals wanted, it was a show they'd get.



For a moment, nothing happened, of course. Some of the military-men chuckled, as if I'd been proven a fraud. (How do they think my colleagues appeared and vanished? Where do they think this castle came from?) Then, there was a rhythmic wind, accompanied by a screeching that bouncingly warped across the sky. The pounding of the air increased, and a dark, fast-moving cloud appeared over the horizon. In moments, the sun and sky were blotted out, as if it were night. Screeching and what sounded like hammering caused them to cover their ears. (I made the castle soundproof moments before.) A legion of dinosauria-sized vultures descended and swarmed around them, and literally not a dot of sky could be seen. The sheer power of their wings flapping caused the earth to shake. I half-muttered, half-sang "He could have called ten thousand vultures," though it was closer to half a million. Of the army, I'd say that one-tenth fainted on the spot, while the majority of them simply ran. General Calen just looked confused. Luckily for him, some not-old-enough-to-be-a-soldier ran up to me and took the spear. As verbal speech was ruled out, with the noise from their wings, I spoke to the General in his mind, telling him that this was what an actual act of war looked like. I suggested that he take his remaining men and leave, so that I could resume minding my own business and posing a threat to no-one. He most hastily agreed. I checked to ensure that Raggedy Anders wasn't slaughtering people, as he tends to do. Instead, he was rolling about on the ground, his laughter drowned out by my precious pets. He always loves it when I put a good scare into the deserving; it fits his image of who I should be.



Though it was still well before noon when they left, I must end today's entry here, I'm afraid. The German Alliance army trampled over much of the surrounding countryside, and I must set to, if I'm to fix it. I shan't live in a wrecked forest! Also, I need to meet with my brain-trust (who have had little to do, of late) and discuss the [unable-to-be-translated avian species/kingdom name] matter. My initial questioning of Romulus and Brutus must be postponed until tomorrow.





Friday, May 21, 483 C.U.:





Breakfast in the south tower, and our purpose in the Timberlands revealed: optically-fuzzy blurberry muffins (blurberries, of course, are native to an island in the other-realm Mercury Sea), creams and jams of an impossible smoothness and pleasing flavor, and light strips of smoked hydra-meat. (With no host whose food we must eat out of politeness, I'm now free to create meals out of magic. Huzzah!) The window in this tower's upper room is a wraparound affair, which gives us an amazing view of the mist-filled Timberlands. Wind and rain were coming in sheets, battering the pine trees. I, of course, was at the head of the table. The seat to my right was empty, as Turk was across the room, practicing his fencing with Raggedy Anders. Anders is easily the best swordsman on the four continents. Usually, such men tire of the constant challengers that they attract, but Anders needs a steady stream of bloodshed to be content. He was going on about his time in the most recent Crusades; how he worked for both sides and killed anyone that he felt deserved it. Tessa was to my left--she wore a dress that was new to my sight, and it accentuated her delectable rear most nicely. I'm afraid that Col. Lindscott bored Gwyn with some wandering anecdote about how his former superior defected to the Pilgrims who went to Australia, only to be devoured by some bizarre marsu-pial creature. I must confess that I noticed a degree of tension between Tessa and Gwyn, today. As they are the only two women in my camp, I thought they'd become friends…but Gwyn has been hesitant, for some reason. I don't think Turk has yet noticed. We were intermittently joined by flickering apparitions that claimed to be the royal family that once inhabited the castle and ruled the Timberlands, but no-one paid them much heed.



When the time came, I clinked on my glass with my butter-knife to get everyone's attention. I've let this little mystery drag on much too long, frankly, but events kept delaying me from my revelation. I reminded them of Brutus and Romulus, and stated that both were descended from Aeneas, a famous Trojan hero. Brutus lived much earlier than Romulus, however. (By now, my brain-trust, who keep to themselves in a most cliquish way, had become fully alert to what I was saying.) I stated that, before the Greeks sacked their home, the Trojans had sent an exploratory group north, to found a colony. They hoped to settle in a resource-rich area, to bolster their country's economy. But this group vanished, and was lost to History. I informed my people that I believed they'd settled in the Timberlands, and that after the Trojan War, they'd gone into hiding, as they feared various Greek gods. I told them the truth: for reasons that I shall disclose later, I wish to locate this colony and seize any historical documents that they might have. I believe their descendants are still alive, and that they may be working in collusion with one of the local villages, or perhaps living among them. Intermarriage may very well have made them look exactly like Timberlands natives. However, I admitted that I had no idea why they chose to set up a colony, here. This prompted much excitement and speculation among my aides, and I sat quietly while they got it out of them.



After that, I took my brain-trust aside and gave them their specific orders. Each of them is a man of science--alchemy, biology, nature, archeology, behavior, engineering, and so on. A good portion of the time, they have nothing to do, but since they're paid most handsomely for that nothing, they have no complaints. That said, I do occasionally have important tasks for them, and I often desire the company of fellow intellectuals, so I bring them wherever I go. Today, I told them to determine how practical various methods of long-term hiding would be--underground, in caves, in abandoned buildings, posing as regular Timberlands folk, etc. Which option would be the best? I also wished to learn how their culture might have developed, and how they might react to being discovered. To help, I gave them all my literature on the Trojans and their society. With these exciting new topics to discuss, they quickly forgot I existed and went off into some distant, secluded part of the castle, as not to be disturbed. Then, I mentally communicated with my spies and scouts, whom I'd sent into the field upon the castle's completion. They were to search for any trace of this colony, and to focus on the territory that one boy from the tavern had told me about--the one that supposedly had no larger nation looking after it. I then had a short communique with my home Nation, using the enchanted mirror that I'd liberated from Lady Parston. My agents were checking the border between my realm and the kingdom of those accursed avians, and thus far, they'd fo


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