Post By anonymous Fri Dec 15, 2006 at 01:50:31 am EST	Subject Posted On Behalf Of An Internet Challenged Friend... The Dainty Satan, Volume I.
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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 found nothing suspicious. (I'm still trying to figure out what this mirror's original enchantment was--Marie told me that Lady Parston didn't know, either; she just knew it was somehow mystical. I simply remagicked it for my own purposes.)



Col. Lindscott had Brutus and Romulus waiting for me, deep in the castle's dungeon. That said, for a dungeon, it was a prim and proper affair, designed mainly for a less-degrading version of what my good friend the Marquis prefers to do to his bedmates. Not wanting something dreary, I'd included many lacey pillows, roses, reclining chairs, curtains, bowls of fruit, etc. It looked rather like a harem-room. Col. Lindscott, repressed as he is, did not look particularly comfortable in this wing, and I can only imagine the effect that it had on our two ancient patriarchs. Each was in a separate room. Though the good Colonel offered his help in interrogating them, I told him I could do it myself. I'd known them much longer than he, and they might be more secretive around someone who didn't know their darkest deeds. I requested that he keep an eye on Raggedy Anders instead, to ensure that he didn't leave the castle or misbehave within it.



I began with Brutus for two reasons: he was clearly the weaker link, and he was fewer generations removed from Troy. Not being a godling, he was considerably more defenseless than his fellow civilization-builder. Yesterday, before going after Romulus, Raggedy Anders had punched him so hard that he'd fallen unconscious on the floor. Between that violence and the shock of seeing me again, he was still twitching like a madman. I resurrected both of them in their then-elderly dying ages (early forties), and despite the fact that I told him that was now relatively young, he could only think of himself as frail and near-death. But he'd been fed well and treated well, and given a comfortable bed to sleep in. That said, I really should have brought in some girls from the local villages, to further relax him. (And let me just say: contrary to popular belief, that is not the world's oldest profession. No, the world's oldest profession is knowledge-bringer, as I was for that ravishing, olive-skinned brunette in the garden. It's a pity they wrote out our sex scene and ret-conned me into being a snake. Hacks, I say! Hacks! Now, some might claim that her "husband"--I know that I didn't see anyone around to marry them--has the actual oldest profession, which would be naming things. But making up nonsense-words and randomly applying them to plants and animals isn't really a real job, now, is it?)



I began things lightly with Brutus, telling him that I wasn't angry about the casket-trick. Then, I listed many of the interesting things that had happened in the Western Isles since his death. He was quite alarmed about the freedoms granted by the Amended Magna Carta, and expressed the opinion that rape should still be the punishment for women who refuse to wear a brown ribbon in their hair during the harvest moon, as those ribbons apparently brought luck to the crops. And they wonder why I focus on the future, rather than the past! One day, we'll all have personal balloon-ships, the ether wing of the medicinal industry will have bought off every crown and turned them pro-science, and slavelike, legally-binding monogamy and dragons shall both be extinct! Huzzah! Upon my informing Brutus of this inevitable future, he went even whiter than he already was and prayed to a god I did not recognize.



Realizing that it might be best to move on, I spent the next several hours pressing him on the subject of Troy. Yes, his ancestors lived there. Yes, they were great Heroes. No, he did not know about any colonies that the country had set up. Yes, London was originally called New Troy. No, he did not know where there might be any undiscovered ruins that could yield valuable maps or documents. He did, however, tell me that after the Trojan Horse affair, they were most paranoid: the surviving/escaping Trojans swore to be ridiculously vigilant, in the future. (I also learned about their architecture, weaponry, and level of skill with magic. It has to be outdated, now, but it might prove to be useful. Perhaps their culture stagnated in isolation, and developed no further?) After pulling out any number of aces that were up my sleeve--I knew things about him that he didn't want the history books to know, including his "special relationship" with ten sister leperchauns (the Celts have large families, don't you know)--I was satisfied that he was telling me everything, or at least everything that was relevant.



Interrogation proved to be much more taxing than I'd remembered, so I took a lengthy lunch in my study and thereafter bent Tessa over the arm of a sofa. Though I'm surely biased, her wooden carvings are quite marvelous, to me. With the rain censoring her outdoor spirit, I've insisted that she spend her free time working on her carvings, so that we might present them to a gallery. The next time some stuffy old priest says that women can't be geniuses, I'm going to beat him over the head with one of her brilliant pieces of art. She was quite pleased to wander about my study nude, stretching and doing her exercises. Her adorable awe has yet to wear off--this castle is the largest building she's ever seen. Also, her work ethic is as strong as ever. She's insisted that, as our guide, she should be doing some actual guiding. I assured her that that time would come, once we'd gathered more information. She wanted it a second time, and our eyes met, with her bouncing on top. Afterwards, I asked if she and Gwyn had had a fight, and she said no. She thought the girl was just shy around people she'd only recently met. I reminded her to be gentle, given that Gwyn was just discovering herself, surrounded by new people in a new place.



Though I have quite a high opinion of myself, I also try to be aware of my limits--as such, I wanted Raggedy Anders to help me in my second interrogation. A brutal, trained-by-the-god-of-war soldier may not be particularly intimidated by my fey manner, though he should be by my power. I located him continuing to school Turk in the art of blade-fighting. He was going into some detail about the way that various weapons (broadswords, katanas, axes, serrated swords, maces, double-edged swords, shurikens, staff-blades, and a plethora of types of knives) tore apart human flesh and bone, what their strengths and weaknesses were, and in which situations they were ideal. Turk was looking quite green at the gills. I suggested they take a break, and escorted Anders down to the dungeon. Granted, Anders looks far more ridiculous than I, but he exudes an ominous mood. Deep within the dark continent, I once saw him trigger a heart-attack in a leopard with naught but a fierce glare.



As soon as we opened the door to the room Romulus was in, his fist flew at my face--it stopped when it hit my aura, of course, and his hand exploded on the spot. He staggered back in pain, and I told him to sit down, shush, and drink his tea. (Being a godling, such an injury was a trifle. His hand grew back in something like five minutes. I imagine that his half-god status made him partially immune to my fealty spell.) He refused, and Raggedy Anders was forced to deliver another thrashing. (Though Romulus is three heads taller and over twice as heavy, Anders has the benefit of being insane.) I could tell that this was going to be a bumpier ride than the day's previous interrogation. After conjuring Promethean chains and subduing him, I informed him that his father's temples were in ruins, that bulls were no longer sacrificed in his father's name, and that his Empire had burned while Nero and I had a fiddling competition. (I understand that there's a song that claims that I lost a fiddling challenge to some backwoods man. Lies! There are many such stories where powerful beings are tricked or defeated by commoners. I'm as populist as the next wealthy, culturally-influential cosmic entity, but they're simply myths, I'm afraid. Even factoring in ego, our life-experience is too long and varied for us to be fooled by someone whose life-experience is shorter and much more limited. I know this because I tried such a trick with my former employer, and was cast down the planes for my trouble.)



In short, his home was now ruled by the Church. He insisted I was lying, of course, and I teleported in my mystic mirror, using it to show him present-day Rome. Being primitive, he asked if he could be seen through it, by those he was watching, and I realized what the mirror's original enchantment was--it's connected to another mirror, somewhere, for purposes of spying. (I initially thought I'd greatly erred, as someone could have overheard my conversations with my Nation…but it turns out that the connection is strictly one-way. After the interrogation, I discovered that it goes to--yes--Lady Parston's bedroom. Or rather, what was originally a guest room, which she's now moved into. My luck strikes again! Tonight shall be quite entertaining.) Upon realizing that I was telling the truth, Romulus was actually vulnerable. To a man such as him, intimidation and threats of death are nothing, but disappointment in his life's work is devastating. My cleverness is legendary for a reason, I suppose.



It was during this time that I pressed him on the matter of Troy--while he claimed to know nothing of [inkstain] colony (Troy fell long before he came onto the scene), I'd once heard that his late father had had secret military intelligence that god-friendly spies had gathered for him. I confronted him with that argument, and he said his relationship with his father hadn't been the best. Eventually, he admitted reading classified reports written by his father, but he claimed he couldn't remember anything about Troy. I threatened to expose various secrets of his, but, as ever, he didn't care what people thought of him. (Alas, he was one of the few men of that era that wasn't a half-powder. With its current connotation and his excessive masculinity, I doubt he'd want that getting out, were it true.) Promises of wealth, women, and power did nothing. Threats of being under my eternal subjugation did nothing, as well, as he knew that my Nation was nothing like the mythical Hades…though I could certainly break my habit and leave him in pain for all eternity. Raggedy Anders offered to "soften him up," but I reminded myself that his empire was initially populated with murderers, rapists, vampires, and other exiles, which meant that he was much too dark and tough to be cowed by further violence.



Our conversation had lasted a good five hours, so we decided to take a break. It turned out that Turk had been eavesdropping just beyond the door, and he strangely insisted that he be allowed to question him. I must admit to slightly ignoring him, here, as Anders and I discussed strategy. But he was so persistent that I finally gave in, though I warned him not to get his hopes up, as Romulus had withstood hours of grilling. He wanted to go it alone, which I flatly refused. Anders and I stood in back of the room, while Turk sat across from the chained half-god. We expected Romulus to insult him, but, upon recognizing him, his first remark was a compliment: "You challenged a godling, boy! Yes, you paid for it, but it showed excellent courage." Raggedy Anders and I shared a look; Turk had guessed that he'd react like this. Then, in a calm, neutral tone of voice, Turk told Romulus of his past as a pickpocket in London's East End. It was not whining or complaining, but an objective recollection of the facts of life, in that environment. It gradually became clear that Turk, being scrappy and rough around the edges, had more in common with Romulus than either Anders or I. (Though a fellow warrior, Anders is much more slick and darkly humorous.) Turk said that they'd both built a life out of nothing, though with the help of powerful benefactors--which was an odd mix of importance and impotence. (Turk acknowledged that Romulus had built far more than him, of course. Admittedly, Turk has had less time to build.)



Turk then made his game-winning move, which, really, I should have thought of myself. It wasn't trickery, it was simply looking at the truth from a new angle. Turk pointed out that the Church currently ruled Rome, and that I was arguably their main enemy. "The enemy of your enemy is your friend." I'd considered applying that line, but written it off, as it's been used far too often and with diminishing effects, culturally speaking. However, while Romulus understood complex alliances, he'd never heard the idea phrased so succinctly, which made him view Turk as some sort of strategic/philosophical genius. With that--no threats or promises or tricks or violence--Romulus gave up what little information he had. He'd heard that whenever the Trojans had gone on an important mission, one man among them would be charged with the task of secretly overseeing it. If the leader were somehow incompetent, he'd use a special mystical potion to empower himself and take control. The special part was that the potion could be made from utterly common things (as opposed to most potions, which require panda blood and volcanic diamonds and what have you), so that the secret agent wouldn't have to carry it and risk being found out; he could create it if/when it were needed. Romulus knew the various ways of making the potion, and said that if we wanted to find Trojan colonizers, perhaps we could see if anyone had been gathering large quantities of these items. (Rather than mass-produce it for their army, Mars and Romulus had kept the potion secret--they wanted to keep the people of Rome dependant on them.)



Unfortunately, Romulus then insisted that he and I take on the Church in what he described as "the most massive war to ever occur," which I politely nixed. Despite my prolonged mystical torture of the man, I'm strictly a pacifist. But I gave him the opportunity to weaken its strangehold on society in other ways, which, I hope, he'll eventually take me up on. For now, he must remain locked up, due to his immunity to the fealty spell. After leaving him, Raggedy Anders and I thoroughly congratulated Turk, and I was pleased to have a new strategy in our search. Though it still wasn't enough to predicate a locating spell on, it'd help us, logistically speaking. Anders pointed out that the Trojans had had plenty of time to stock up on all the ingredients they'd ever need, but I told him how Brutus had described their paranoia--I was sure that, upon my arrival, they'd want even more of the potion, just to feel safe. Before supping, I used the mirror to check in with my Nation. The search for the border-fracture was continuing. Given the sheer size of the border, it could take a week to circumnavigate the entire thing. Business before pleasure, I also mentally communicated with my spies and other agents in the field, updating them on the new information I'd gathered, and dispatching some of them to stake out sources of ingredients--crops, quarries, lakes with certain types of moss, etc. With that, I was free to peek in on Lady Parston, once again using the mirror. She was dressing to go out, presumably to some congregation gathering, and she was spending much time primping herself and choosing a most figure-flattering outfit, in addition to tidying up the guest-room she was staying in. Perhaps she hoped to bring someone home? Alas, I caught but the briefest flash of her right nipple, and nothing more.



We took dinner in the south tower: corkscrew alfredo pasta, solar wine from an Atlantean temple, and mammothchops. The rain had weakened to a drizzle, but it hailed off and on. Col. Lindscott expressed disbelief that Romulus--"that hooligan that struck Turk"--had the intellectual fortitude to create the Roman Empire, including the concept of the Senate. Raggedy Anders informed them that I'd helped with the creation of the former, and was solely responsible for the creation of the latter. (I must admit, I invented democracy mainly to confound my former employer, who always gained cultural influence by winning over kings. Knowing that the overall human population would never go along with his stricter commands, I surmised that it couldn't hurt for them to have power, instead.) Brutus joined us midway through the meal…he'd initially turned down my offer to eat with us, but I imagine he was sick of staying in that frilly dungeon. Unlike Romulus, Brutus has absolutely no interest in taking back his old kingdom. Exact quote: "Somebody else has himself that ball-and-chain, now. That land ate my family alive and made us prisoners, but now, I be free." (The language-updating spell is far from a perfect science. That said, Brutus isn't exactly cultured. He evinced the most terrible table manners, and still can't get used to modern clothes. Such is often the case when heroes of antiquity return. Once, a naïve princess asked me to resurrect King Arthur, as she hoped to heal his heartbreak and marry him. After she fulfilled her end of the bargain, I granted her wish. Moments later, a bearskin-wearing, pug-ugly warlord--with hair down to his back and a beard down to his sternum--clubbed her over the head and started trying to tear her dress off. I had to kill the poor gentleman, I'm afraid.)



Sitting through Brutus' long, rambling speech about his exceptionally-complicated family tree (Though Brutus is utterly normal, I discovered that his grandmother--I think it was his grandmother--was Venus. I had more than my share of dalliances with her. I do hope that I didn't inadvertantly spawn the British and Roman royal families.) gave me a chance to observe Gwyn's behavior. Tessa had redoubled her efforts in reaching out to her, but Gwyn was still cold, and Turk was beginning to notice. This young melodrama interested me more than olde Western Isles tales, so, after we'd finished eating, I discreetly took Gwyn aside. Though I have absolute faith in Turk, I wasn't sure if he was romantically experienced enough to handle this sort of delicate situation. I regret to say that, while I discovered what was going on, the only reason I did was because some part of her believed my public image; she feared me too much to lie. She'd heard some of my men talking rather lustily about Tessa, after her public-bathing affair. She knew that Turk had heard about it, and feared that he'd want Tessa more than her, as she was wilder and more sexually experienced. Being intimidated by Tessa, she was naturally unable to have a friendship with her. She'd tried to be more like Tessa, to little success. She was dealing with both the fear of being unable to satisfy her lover and the guilt that she was somehow "sinning".



I've often encountered women going through crises like these in my own love-life, so I was fully prepared to handle it. I told her the truth…yes, Tessa is an exhibitionist, and there's nothing wrong with that, just as there's nothing wrong with not being one. There's obviously no point in trying to be someone you aren't. Also, I told her that she needs to learn to divorce personality and personal choice from presumed moral prescription. For instance, despite being rather bloodthirsty, Raggedy Anders ironically eats only fruits and vegetables. Some think that his actions are a statement that he believes it's wrong to eat meat--and while there certainly are people who believe that, that's not the case, for him. It's merely his choice. There are a minority of actions made out of some deeply-held belief, but the majority come about because of lifestyle and the like. I myself am a romantic nomad, a serial monogamist who often practices polyamory…but by no means should anyone read that as a statement that I think that's the way everyone should be. If someone wants to enter into lifelong monogamy, more power to them. (I don't think it should be legally-binding, however, for their own safety.)



The entire thing was rather ridiculous, though I was kind in pointing that out. She and Turk didn't have any real problem; she was upset because of what one irrelevant party thought about another irrelevant party, and because of an assumption based on that. (By no means am I saying that Tessa is irrelevant overall, but, in the context of their relationship, everyone but the two of them are irrelevant, technically speaking.) I stressed the importance of communication and honesty, and told her not to worry about what others thought--so long as she and Turk were happy, what else mattered? Indeed, she vaguely stated that their intimate life was going well, her Tessa-style experiments notwithstanding, and I tend to believe her--if it weren't, Turk would surely blame himself and come to me for advice. I blame her problems both on our puritan society and on the magic-dealer that created her, as the dealer made sure that she'd be pleasing to look at, while neglecting to give her much of a personality or backbone. I reminded her that, as an artificial magic creation, she could theoretically do things that a real woman couldn't. She could please Turk in ways that Tessa never could. I encouraged her to develop her own interests and to build a life outside of Turk, as well, which would benefit both of them. I must admit that I felt oddly paternal, after my talk with her. Later in the evening, I saw she and Tessa stealing off with the remaining wine, and much later, I saw Tessa gesturing in a most complicated fashion, attempting to show her ways to enhance her experience with Turk. (Alone, I spent this time examining the carvings Tessa had made, today. They were exquisite! It was as if each one had a soul that was easily-felt, though, for some reason, they didn't immediately remind me of Tessa herself. Perhaps they come from some other side of her?)



I imagine that my talk and Tessa's talk must have worked, as I just went in search of more ink (mystically-created ink tends to vanish over time, so that's out of the question), and I heard the two of them going at it quite loudly. One of those royal ghosts is back and complaining to me about the young heathens defiling his late daughter's bedroom. I can't write with his chattering, though I have information to record regarding my brain-trust's speculations, so I'm afraid I'll have to end things here, for today. Besides, I just realized that these royals may know something about our favorite Trojan colony…





Saturday, May 22, 483 C.U.:





It was one of those hauntingly serene moments that last one for a lifetime, or for several thousand lifetimes, as the case may be. The rain continued, so the ghost of King Izakard (he of the late Timberlands royal family) and I walked about in an enclosed courtyard, listening to the deluge batter the sturdy glass ceiling. A long, cobblestone walkway circled through the indoor park, going around the trees and over the low hills. There were stone benches for sitting. The King asked me the names of the gloriously bizarre animals and plants we saw, and I had to confess that I'd never gotten around to properly naming them. Not all of my former employer's designs were used, you see. Some flora and fauna didn't quite make the cut. (I assured him that the more beastly beasts had been mystically tamed.) Green and black tigers, winding purple vines that pulsed with a glowing life, rubbery dogs that breathed water and air, trees topheavy with silver leaves. As opposed to Brutus and Romulus, the good King, who dated back a thousand years (the Timberlands has been fractured for all of modern history), took the future in stride. Granted, this may have had something to do with the fact that the castle's indoor stream passes through these fields, and he saw Tessa and Gwyn frolicking nude with the incandescent dolphins. (Tessa made sure to keep to the exceedingly isolated areas, due to Gwyn's shyness. It was but chance that we saw them; they hadn't expected anyone to be in my private area of the courtyard.)



He told me of his people's origin and history--the air was cursed and overplenty, and fires ignited easily, so the World Tree created a race that would devour the air, weakening it. He told me of the Natural Borders--just as some nations are protected by the sea or by the mountains, they were protected by the mystery of the forest. (In those early, post-cave days, those in the fields were afraid of the misty darkness of the forests. What hid behind those wide trunks? What lurked high in the branches?) He told me of his great-great-grandfather--this ancient King stumbled upon a giant, talking wolf that wished to use the entire Timberlands to create a wooden house for himself, and his ancestor slew him, producing enough meat to feed his entire nation through not just that winter, but a hundred winters. He told me of their summer river festivals--when the young women would wear brightly-colored dresses, the parents would pretend not to hear their maturing children sneaking out for the midnight river traditions, and the young men would ask for the hands of the girls they'd discovered the previous day and night. He told me of a mysterious, "dark-skinned" people (I imagine that everyone looks dark, to them) that passed through in the waning days of his own reign--while his sons squabbled and the World Tree became angry. He told me of the series of civil wars--fought over inches of property and meaningless doctrine. He told me of the great splintering--their culture dividing and growing in a hundred different directions, with sectarian tension and antisocial leanings.



There, in a Garden of beings the lifesmiths had rejected, I extended my hand to him in friendship: fellow royalty, fellow adventurers, fellow participants in most epic times.



Of course, Raggedy Anders ruined the moment, bucking onto the scene on some sort of horse-sized dino-saur he was trying to tame, while screaming mother-related expletives in a rather obscure Persian dialect, but nonetheless. I'm afraid that King Izakard had little actual information on their dark-skinned visitors, who, of course, appeared around the same time that the colony group was sent out. Why they let themselves be seen, I don't know; it's not as if it's difficult to avoid other people in the Timberlands, as compared to the rest of the Continent. Perhaps just a mistake? At any rate, King Izakard was thrilled to have someone to talk to--he and his family couldn't stray beyond the castle grounds, and what few locals braved it would end up running away, screaming, at the sight of them. He kept quite a good humor about the whole "appropriating his castle for my own uses" affair. When I asked him if he'd seen anything suspicious since his demise (thinking of the Trojans), I expected a lengthy litany of replies, but it turned out that things had been ridiculously dull, around the castle. All he could think of was an odd visitor they'd had--a regular pale Timberlands boy who'd demanded to know why they'd let some disaster happen. However, the strongest post-death incident that came to his mind was that of Tessa undressing in front of him in his old bedroom, knowing he was watching. Exact quote: "It's been so long since I've seen a living woman--let alone a nude beauty--that I'm afraid that my body may have injured itself in reacting to her."



But before I continue, let me explain the last events of yesterday. I met with my brain-trust, and they informed me of their speculations on the colony. They suggested that, after the Trojan Horse incident, they'd be paranoid and even more isolationistic, which Brutus had confirmed. (One of my men wondered if perhaps they didn't know of Troy's fall, and were hiding for some other reason. But, no, I believe that they learned of it and hid from the Greek gods, as they feared that they'd wipe out every last trace of the city-state.) There was also a theory that operated on the assumption that they were not posing as Timberlands folk, and were instead hiding completely. The idea was that, to keep from inbreeding, they'd need to bribe or kidnap young women, bringing fresh blood into their community. They suggested that my agents be on the lookout for any "haunted" area of the forest where many have gone missing. I learned that the area around the rivers was not good for any underground hideaways, due to a high water table or somesuch, so if they lived in secret cellars, they'd be higher up and/or away from the rivers. They speculated that, given that their society's collapse involved a horse structure, they might feel betrayed and turn on their religion, as it was horse-centric. (Thus the Greeks' choice of subterfuge.) Perhaps some still believed and some did not, creating cultural tensions. Speaking of subterfuge, given that their society fell because of it, my men posited that the Trojans would want to master the art, out of self-defense. And, though they were gentle in doing so, they wondered if the colony would still exist at all. What if they killed each other, or got sick, or were discovered by the Greek gods, or were trapped in a cave-in? And they were fairly obsessing over why the colony had been founded at all. Mortals do love a mystery, I must say.



(And I'm sad to report that Lady Parston did not come home, last night. Or rather, if she did, I didn't see it in the mirror. She either spent the night in her marriage bed--which I doubt, given how she's grown apart from the poor, clueless Lord Parston--or she went home with some gentleman she met on the social scene. My voyeurism quotient for the day was not met. Bah!)



It was at this point that I made my morning mental check-in with my various spies and agents, and though none reported anything overtly suspicious (regarding the resources needed to make the potion), two had overheard most interesting stories. First, long ago, there was some incident in the Timberlands where a group of miners had simply disappeared. (Though logging is obviously the linchpin of their economy, I understand that their hills have some silver veins, as well.) There'd been no obvious disaster, they simply hadn't come back to ground. It had been a tragedy of epic proportions. Also, a barn containing a large quantity of one of the ingredients for the Trojan potion had been pillaged by thieves, last night. What struck me was that both events had occured in the region that the tavern boy had told me about--the land that was supposedly on its own, with no larger allegiance. (Furthermore, the mine incident had happened around the time that King Izakard reported someone coming into his then-dreary castle and raving about the World Tree and long-dead royals failing them, which explained that.) I sought out Raggedy Anders and told him of my plan--bless that rageful Romulus, his rantings had given me an idea.



I prefer to be as informed as possible before I make my move, thus my sitting about the castle, interrogating and waiting for information to be collected and theorizing and such. But the time had come. I'm afraid I caused quite a stir with my sudden whirlwind of activity. I called for my horses to be prepared, I locked down the castle so that no-one could go in or out through conventional means, I instructed Col. Lindscott to take command in my absence (with my brain-trust watching over him to guard against alcohol-caused mistakes), and I summoned Tessa, Turk, Gwyn, and Brutus to my chambers. Raggedy Anders and I were waiting when they arrived. I told them that we were to go out into the Timberlands and search for the colony directly, focusing on that un-allied area. I asked Tessa what loggers wore on stormy days, asking her to also mention colors, and she said: a green, hooded rain-cloak, dark brown pants, a green-and-black flannel shirt, a black longcoat, and sturdy brown boots. I mystically gave us such attire a moment later. Brutus had no idea why he was being forced to come along, and, still thinking of himself as old, he insisted that he stay behind, as he didn't want to catch cold. I offered Gwyn the chance to come with us, as I suspected that she wouldn't be comfortable being separated from Turk. I was quite right. Tessa was thrilled to finally be able to guide us somewhere, and she looked forward to the prospect of riding a horse, which she hadn't done since she was a girl.



Suspecting that we might see action, Raggedy Anders gave Turk a most interesting sword. It's often been called the singing sword; it's a worn-looking blade that's surrounded by a vibrating aura of sound, thus the odd noise it emits when being used. Though the aura can be made to be razor-sharp, capable of cutting through almost anything, it can also be blunted, so attackers can be disabled in a non-lethal fashion. It carries the force of a giant's fist, as I understand it. Anders transferred the various sword-related enchantments to Turk--the sword couldn't hurt him or anyone he didn't wish it to hurt, it would always return to him, etc. I was surprised by this, as it was one of Anders' favorite swords…but I imagine that he thought Turk needed it more than him. (Had Tessa or Gwyn had the sort of tough street experience and combat training Turk has, they would have gotten swords, as well, of course. When trouble breaks out, I greatly appreciate women that can lend a hand. But for this mission, they'll be unarmed, I'm afraid, not that either of them requested weapons. For his part, Anders brought a scimitar, a thin throat-slitting knife, a jagged hunting knife, and a number of "shurikens" that he'd acquired in Asia.) Some of my aides didn't understand why the castle was in lockdown, and I told them that I feared that some spy from the Trojans would pose as a regular Timberlands person, request to meet me, and notice that myself and some of my key people were mysteriously absent. After gathering supplies and putting them in my infinity sack, we teleported outside and shot into the late morning mist. (I'm afraid that teleporting directly there is out of the question; they may have counterspells in place, which would probably send us to India or somesuch.)



I currently write this in a cottage-sized tent, deep in the old-growth area of the Timberlands, where the trees are truly gigantic. I imagine it must be midnight. The forest canopy has shielded us from much of the rain, during our journey. Tessa says that it's about a day's ride, so we're roughly three-quarters of the way there. Rather than going straight through, we're resting here, as I don't want to tire out my mortal companions. (Turk and Gwyn are snuggling in a sleepy-bag, and Brutus is wrapped in blankets like a mummy, as he greatly fears this cold.) Raggedy Anders routinely patrols our campsite and scouts the nearby areas. I do hope Romulus is behaving himself, back at the castle; I dispatched several of my giant vultures to guard him. (Normally, I'd simply ride them if teleportation were out of the question, but we're trying to keep a low profile.) Tessa is actually sleeping without being nude, which is rare, for her. Blasted chilly weather! Also, I'm pleased to say that I had the foresight to bring my mirror along. The border-search in my Nation continues, and Lady Parston examined herself unclothed before her mirror for much time, including turning around, jutting out her rear, and looking over her shoulder--I was greatly thankful. She has the look of a woman who's about to reveal herself to a new man, and she wishes to inspect herself closely before doing so. Lady Parston is in her late thirties, and she's both ravishingly curvy and lean. Perhaps she didn't come home last night because she stayed with one of her housewife friends, rather than going home with this soon-to-be-lover?





Sunday, May 23, 483 C.U.:





While I'm much more of a citydweller, I must admit that I'd been looking forward to waking up in the countryside. I pictured a peaceful tableau of chirping birds, rushing water, darkness and mist, etc. Unfortunately, what I instead received was Brutus screaming so loud and high that his voice cracked like cathedral glass, while he ran about flogging himself with whip-like tree branches and begging various "pagan" gods for his life. You see, all of the natural, soothing sounds had been drowned out by a booming, inhuman voice that was droning on in a language that even I didn't know, and it had rendered Brutus an alienist's dream come true. The other members of my party were only mildly distressed, though both Raggedy Anders and Turk unsheathed their swords. I mystically translated the language, and we discovered that the voice was saying, "She is The One." I was initially confused as to whether he meant Tessa or Gwyn, but the canopy parted, and a beam of weak sunlight illuminated my heartily-bosomed lover.



It was at this point that, quite frankly, I rather ruined the majesty of the moment by interrupting and becoming exceedingly fussy. To wit, I wanted to know which The One he was referring to. I pointed out that practically every nation, religion, and culture has a hero or savior who's due to either emerge or return at their darkest moment, save them, and proceed to make them all-powerful. Likewise, when it comes to certain skill-sets and crafts, their practitioners say that one day, One will appear and be the best they've ever seen--the best samurai, the best runner, the best artist of a particular medium, the best at deriving poison from griffen corpses, etc. And finally, with each of the various threats the Universe faces, there's usually a The One who's destined to rise up and stop it. After going through all this with the voice, I demanded to know specifics. It was at this point that a human-shaped being split off from one of the trees: he had bark for skin and spring-shaped, leafy branches for hair. He introduced himself as none other than a messenger splinter of the World Tree, got down on one knee, and kissed Tessa's hand. Knowing who'd been speaking, I understood Tessa's destiny, though I allowed him to explain it to her. (It should be pointed out that the World Tree is but one facet of the Axis Mundi; the central axis that all of existence turns on. Here, it's located in the North country, near my viking friends. In other realms, it takes different forms--though it can also be a tree or forest--but it's all the same thing.)



At any rate, he told her that for each element, there is an artist destined to be the master of creating with it. (And there are far more than four elements. I believe the alchemical table contains no less than one hundred and twelve.) There were two long-ago energysmiths who made masterpieces out of suspended water and fire, respectively; there was a Hindu man who made silver glow with life; there was an Aborigine that created a maze of sound; there was an African holy man who could create and command lightshows with his mind. Tessa, of course, has always made her tiny wooden trinkets, while not realizing that it's a calling, rather than a mere pastime. Initially, she thought that such an artist came along once every generation, but no, it's once every epoch, at the most. She was told that the World Tree's soul and experiences would be reflected in her work, though her own personality would be mixed in, as well. To be the master of an element, to be able to say that your work represents both yourself and a force much larger than yourself…though I'm part of many elite cliques, that isn't one of them, alas. But I'm very pleased that Tessa has an advantage over me in at least one area, as I was beginning to feel that she didn't think we were equals. (Again, being a firm adherant to the Amended Magna Carta, I believe that we're all equal, which is more than I can say for my former employer. Yes, try to put one gender in charge of another, and spend more time criticizing non-marital sex than slavery, why don't you? You still owe me back-pay, by the by! I was to receive a severance package, and I intend on collecting it, with interest! Deadbeat deity!)



Though there were many things I wished to ask this messenger, I wasn't entirely sure how much he could be trusted. Yes, he very well might know of the place I'm seeking, but who knows what hidden loyalties he might have--whereas I knew for a fact that this Trojan colony had a map to it, and it's always safer to go with the certain thing. (Note the past tense, and wonder where I'm writing this from.) After he made some suggestions to Tessa, and after Tessa took him behind a tree and had her way with him (I don't believe in possessiveness or jealousy; no-one ever said we were exclusive), he offered Tessa anything in the worlds, in exchange for the artistic service she would be doing him. She requested that he always look after the Timberlands people, as they're quite vulnerable and dependant on outside powers. He agreed, and said he'd create heroic archers to oversee their progress. With that, he gave us leave, and we packed up and went on our way. To his credit, the splinter-messenger gave us a most excellent shortcut to the mysteriously-unallied village, which is called Aveck. Upon our emergence from the thicker part of the forest, when we could once again see the sky, we found that it was throbbing with thunderclouds. The air was thinner, as we were higher in the hills. We finally passed some pale-blonde, pale-skinned Timberlands natives, who viewed us with a standoffish suspicion that seems to define the region. Was it because of their reclusive cultural mentality, or was it because those in this particular area have a secret to keep? It was around lunchtime, by then, and it was still dark…combined with the distance they saw us from, I believe our clothing disguises held.



Aveck was about what I'd expected: lots of wooden halls, some smaller storage huts. Axes and other sharp tools had been left jammed in tree stumps. But the place was a ghost town--not literally, mind you, but it was decidedly abandoned-looking. No-one walked the streets (or paths, I suppose they were, as they had no masonry anywhere), horse-posts had no animals tied to them, and the windows were all shuttered. My gifted senses detected no existant beings within the buildings. So, we dismounted. Turk picked the primitive, wooden locks easily enough, and we found ingredients for their mystical potion inside each hut. Inside the familial halls were living quarters that looked as if they'd been occupied until very recently. They figured out we were coming, I'm afraid. It was at this point that Gwyn, to her credit, quite calmly called my name and alerted me to the fact that we were no longer alone. There were three wooden, small giants, outside, each about the height of five men. One was painted black, one grey, and one white. Each had the head of a horse (it looked rather like the knight piece in Mandrake Play), the arms of a spider, and the legs of a human. They were manmade structures automated by magic.



I began to address them in a friendly manner, and white-blue fire shot from their snouts. Tessa got Brutus and Gwyn to safety, while Raggedy Anders and Turk drew their swords. (I, of course, put a protective energy-dome around Brutus and the women.) Turk threw the singing sword at the grey statue, and its blunt, thundering force punched through both kneecaps before returning to his grasp. No longer attached to the lower halves of both of its legs, it fell facefirst and sank into the moist ground. Turk looked quite pleased with himself. The black statue tried to smash Raggedy Anders with its spidery arms, but he acrobatically dodged, leapt onto its face, and gouged its eyes out with his scimitar. It attacked blindly, trying to swat him off, and he skittered all over its body, making it hit itself each time. His non-magical scimitar could only do minimal damage to such a large creature, however, and he was forced to slither down its throat and work from the inside out. The statue went through all sorts of convulsions, and eventually, mystically-charged fluid gushed out from blade-made holes. (Though wooden on the outside, each had an alchemical pseudo-biology on the inside.) I was quite fascinated with the odd fire that they shot, and when the black horse used it on me, I simply transferred it into a pocket-realm and drew as much out of the statue as I could, wanting to experiment with it later. The fire was apparently its energy-source, as, once I'd drained it, it tipped over, inert.



Knowing that the Trojans were watching, I began by introducing myself and my party, focusing especially on Brutus of Troy, who, I gambled, was known to them. I assured them that Greek civilization was gone, and that I had no connection to the Greek gods. Looking at their statue-protectors and deducing cultural implications, I said that I offered tribute to the horse gods, the spider gods, and those without gods. (As my brain-trust had suspected, their horse-based monotheism had broken up.) With that, I [text faded due to water damage, roughly half a sentence] had a deal to [more damage]. I said that I understood their wariness of outsiders, considering what had happened, and that I was perfectly willing to hold our negotiations in the village, as opposed to going into the underground city they'd carved out of limestone, casually mentioning that I knew of both its existence and exact location. (Once in the village, it took little time for my senses to discover their true home--as I suspected, the main entrance to it was nearby. The village began as the front they used while constructing the city, which took many decades. It grew, and, knowing that an entire town disappearing would look suspicious, they've kept up appearances ever since, while a majority of their population lives underground.)



Roughly ten minutes after my initial outreach, about a hundred spear-carrying, Timberlands-looking (i.e., pale and blonde) men and women surrounded us. I allowed this to happen. Each had a weaker version of the power-potion in their blood; I imagine that the original recipes were lost, over time, and they had to make do with half-remembered formulae. It was meant to be a show of force, to intimidate us, but even they knew it wasn't particularly impressive. We'd just beaten three giants with minimal effort, a tiny army of slightly-enhanced mortals would be a trifle. They asked what sort of deal I sought, and I informed them that I'd only discuss it with a top-level individual, in private. Thinking of something I should have mentioned earlier, I said that I had no intention of revealing the secret of their existence or location to anyone. They directed us to a non-trapped hall (which they referred to as a longhouse), and made us wait a good hour before they finally sent someone. It was a blondish-grey-haired man that was quite terrified of me. I got the distinct impression that he was merely a pliable subordinate--he reminded me of the yes-monks that make the Church's hierarchy insufferable. (And, I must say, cardinals and bishops and the like wear garb that's as flamboyant as my own. Combined with how their cathedrals' interiors tend to be sparkly and vaguely gaudy, how they willingly chose a life without women, and how their services are quite theatrical, they're a bit too obvious, I think.) He and I went and sat in a back room, while my party waited in the main area. After rather pointless introductions, I made my offer: in exchange for access to all of their ancient maps and documents, I'd take them to a place where they would no longer have to fear the Greek gods.



He seemingly ignored my offer and told me that my understanding of their situation was limited. I conceded this, though I said that I'd figured a few things out. For instance, given their appearance, I was certain that they kidnapped Timberlands people periodically, including that group of miners from long ago, so they could introduce them to the kin-pool and stave off inbreeding. I also clarified an earlier statement, saying that, though I had no desire to reveal their colony's existence, kidnapping--let alone mass-kidnapping--was quite clearly outlawed in the Amended Magna Carta, and they would do well not to test my patience on this subject. (I briefly told him of the document's history, going from national to inter-national, as it were.) He pressed for information on where I'd place his people, and I offered to tell him, in exchange for access to at least some of their maps and documents. Whereas if they showed all, I'd personally transport them to this place. This began a series of most annoying intervals. He had to go back and ask his superior/superiors what to do, which took a good half-hour. I passed the time by ravishing Tessa in one of the empty bedrooms. (The chillier temperature made her skin feel harder, which provided for a fascinating sensory experience.) When he returned, he said he just wanted to learn of the location I had in mind. I agreed, and, unfortunately, he hadn't had the foresight to bring any papers with him, so he went to fetch them, which once again took a half-hour. I passed the time by discreetly watching Turk ravish Gwyn in another of the empty bedrooms. (She's still too hesitant to be on top, I'm afraid, whereas that's Tessa's favorite.)



He returned with not just papers, but their leader: the strikingly-beautiful Queen Sehran. With their aristocracy being slain in the war, and the blue-blooded Brutus betraying them by forming a different country (as opposed to a new Troy; I shall follow up on this point later), leadership of their nation had fallen to the most noble of the colonists, who produced a makeshift royal family. Save Brutus, my party was quite surprised to see that she was not particularly white-- Troy was in the Middle East, of course. I imagine they've seen too many inaccurate paintings where all sorts of pale people are greeting the Trojan Horse. Unsurprisingly, the colonists had kept the new royal bloodline free from outside influence. (And let me say, I've never understood this "white" business. I've met many Greeks, Italians, and Spaniards who are darker than, say, Persians, Ottomans, or Northern Africans. And yet, they aren't considered black. I've come to believe it refers to one's region, rather than one's skin. After all, wouldn't "peach" be more accurate?) She had long, black hair that was gloriously wavy, intelligent eyes, and she wore sturdy tan-and-black clothing.



After introductions and discreet, mutual ogling, she personally handed me a sampling of the papers, and I quickly reviewed them. Though the location I sought was not shown or mentioned, the parchments were clearly of the right time-period, and I believed more than ever that they did indeed possess what I was looking for. But, quid pro quo. I first had to give her something of a remedial geography lesson, telling her a secret that virtually no other mortals knew. Yes, the world is flat, as all know. What most refer to as the North and South Poles are actually deep walls of ice that keep the oceans from spilling out. And if you go west, yes, you'll see the edge of the world. The surprising thing is, there are worlds below and above us, and not just in a cosmic sense. We live on one of a series of massive, natural stair-steps. To the west is a waterfall that falls for two thousand miles, and leads to a tropical ocean and a continent of square pyramids. To the east, just beyond the land of the rising sun, is a nigh-sheer cliff that rises out of the sea for two thousand miles, and has been successfully climbed by very few in all of History. I must admit to not being certain as to what lays beyond that cliff. Out of respect for ancient treaties, the gods do not leave their level to go up or down…I told her that if I transported them to this warm, lower place, they'd be safe from the Greek deities forever.



Understandably, she had some reservations. She also said that there were problems in their society that might prevent her from taking my offer. After excusing her underling, she explained the rationale behind the founding of their colony, which greatly affects my deal's chances. (Note the present tense--I'm not giving up!) It turns out that ancient Troy's military minds had already deduced that a mere city-surrounding wall might not be enough to protect against the Greeks. Prototype colonies were sent to test the practical security of various Natural Borders areas--places that were protected by geography (islands and mountaintops offered seclusion and defensible positions, while deserts, plains, and tundras made it so enemies couldn't approach using the cover of terrain) or by human perception of geography (the "mystery of the forest," as the ghostly King Izakard put it). Unfortunately, shortly after Troy fell, the Greeks somehow learned of the colonies, and their theories were put to the test. The isolated areas were hardest to bring down, while those that merely offered excellent vantage-points were quickly overwhelmed with sheer numbers. But the Greek army would not invade the Timberlands, as some distant race-memory made them fear the deep forest. Even their gods offered no help, as they knew not what to expect from the World Tree, and they didn't want to incur its wrath just to take out one tiny colony.



I must admit…after she went through all that, I still didn't see anything that would hold them back. Yes, they feared their old enemies. No, they couldn't be gotten to on the next level down. One protective region would be replaced with another. But then, she told me of an agreement that had been signed, long ago. It's a paranoia-inspired failsafe to make them as secure as possible. Quite simply, they aren't allowed to leave the Timberlands until they complete a perfected version of Troy itself. It doesn't matter if they have a "certain thing" to fall back on or not, their law demands they design a walled city that's truly impregnable. Which is, of course, impossible, but I did my best not to mention that. That's what they've been doing underground, all this time…building and rebuilding fresh iterations of Troy. Running infinite war-games. One side is tasked with coming up with every possible way to breach the city's security, and the other side is tasked with anticipating those breaches ahead of time and preparing against them. They make defensive improvements to the city and repeat. It's quite a thankless, depressing, and frankly pointless way of living, I think. Their culture has fallen by the wayside, they work the vast majority of the day, and most are embittered. Most feel their horse-gods failed them, taking to spider statues or no gods at all.



A dreary, slogging existence, religious conflict, a focus on doom and death…I saw Trojan society's tensions reflected in her eyes, and I took her hand and offered to remind her, as only one from the Nation of the Dead can, that life is beautiful.



With her permission, I opened a portal to just the island I had in mind and took her on a tour. It's roughly fifteen thousand miles west of the Western Isles, halfway between Earth Falls and the tropical continent. The civilizations there are quite advanced, so invasion is unlikely. In fact, if the Trojans do move, they may not even be discovered. The lower-continent's ships are never near the island, for two reasons: the closer fishing lanes are bountiful, so there's no need to go that far east, and they've already explored the eastern (to them) sea, and they know that there's naught but relative dots of land and an endless fog that's created by the falls. The closest thing the island has to predators are large turtles. I fear that Queen Sehran never seen that much sunlight, before, as she was blinking like mad and shielding her eyes. (The Timberlands is rainy or snowy the vast majority of the time, and what little sunlight gets through is muted. And, mind you, she mainly lives underground.) Likewise, she'd never been anywhere that warm, and she was soon forced to strip to her undergarments, which is when I discovered that she had several regal tattoos--intricate state seals and historic symbolism. There, looking over lush jungle, a brilliant ocean, and festively-beaked birds, the spiritual chill of the Timberlands was knocked out of her.



Though their underground city is quite spacious, she'd never before had the opportunity for this degree of solitude, and she wished to take a walk by herself. I mystically watched her from a distance, just to be safe. Sticking to the coastline, she was hesitant, at first. Then, her step lightened, and she laughed and danced. Amazement at these new surroundings had dissipated her stress; it was clear that this was where she wanted to be. After a time, she glanced about furtively, stripped off her undergarments, laid down on the sand, and touched herself while the waves washed over her, eventually screaming so loud that it echoed. No need to hold back when alone, of course. After she finished, I joined her and admired her body. Nipples darker than midnight, a lean waist, surging breasts and a sculptured rear, a constellation of flat, freckle-like moles that stretched across her firm skin. Unlike the native girls I've met on so many other islands, she was quite insecure about being nude in the open (those from colder regions usually are, my liberal viking friends notwithstanding), but she was so sun-drenched that she didn't care. I kissed the water and sweat off her chest and stomach, and later helped rub the sand off her curves underneath a waterfall. I quite lost count of the places where I took her. A sloping rock that jutted out of the bay, the beach, a grassy field from which a dead volcano could be seen, the waterfall, ancient ruins that she had her palms pressed against…at any rate, her final orgasm was so deafening that it sent an entire flock of blue-and-orange parrots blasting into the sky.



I'm currently in her royal bedchamber, and I'm quite exhausted, I must admit. Tessa is lost in ideas for her carvings, Turk and Gwyn are loving their guest suite, Raggedy Anders is bored out of his blessed mind, and Brutus is locked up (I shall explain that aspect of things tomorrow). Their underground city is very well-designed, if on the dingy side. Many were shocked when she allowed us in. But, as she said, if their enemies were to try another subterfuge gambit, why use someone ( i.e., me) who looks so conspicuous and demonic? We're due to meet with the elders, tomorrow, but she told me not to get my hopes up. I used my enchanted mirror to communicate with my Nation and check in with Lady Parston. I'm pleased to report that, though it took two days, my people finally found the breach in the border between my realm and the [avian species whose name is unable to be translated]'s realm. Quite frankly, I'd almost forgotten about that entire affair. They say that the metaphysical rubble, if you will, is all on our side, which means that the damage originated on their side. I approved a stealthy scout team to sneak through the fracture and perform reconaissance. I can only assume that we found the hole before they did, since evidence that implicates their kingdom was present. Surely they'd have covered it up, given the chance. I shall elaborate on Lady Parston in my next entry.



And, incidentally--I took the risk of telling Sehran about the specific document I sought, and she informed me that they did indeed have it. Should they accept my island offer, it shall be mine. This particular map that will be most useful, I say. Most useful.





Friday, June 4, 483 C. U.:





I'm sorry for the two-week delay in my entries, Diary, but it's been terribly busy. Meetings with the elders, overseeing negotiations with the religious sects, Brutus' ridiculously-speedy trial, dividing my romantic time between Tessa and Sehran (occasionally both at once), Raggedy Anders providing much entertainment by testing the Trojan military and meeting a fellow living toy, Tessa creating nonstop, Turk's adventure on the island, Gwyn blossoming and defining herself, my subversion of the Trojan colony for the greater good, Lady Parston's new lover, finding out the secret behind the border incident in my Nation…it's been a madhouse, I tell you. But through it all, I've retained my dandy flair and signature style, never letting the eventfulness ruffle me. Though I've long been convinced that so-called "work" is quite unhealthy and must be made obsolete to save the mortal species, I must admit, the feeling of accomplishment I now have is mildly satisfying. Granted, I can get an even more powerful feeling from pleasure, which takes slightly less time. (Not significantly less, I assure you!)



I shall get the least interesting thread out of the way immediately. Unlike my former employer, I've never claimed to be perfect, you see. No, I'm as fallible as anyone else. Suffice to say, I shouldn't have been surprised when my Brutus ploy failed to pay off. I'd thought that having the grandson of a Trojan hero (the famed Aeneas) would lend me credibility, but I'm afraid that it did the exact opposite. I should have looked at it from their point of view. Brutus was taught all about Troy, but when he had the opportunity to create a new nation, he failed to make it in the shape of his homeland. The Western Isles incorporated none of Troy's culture--no horse-worship, no walled cities, etc. And though cut off from the world, the colony knew that the Western Isles had become one of the most powerful empires in existence. So, had Brutus not ignored his heritage, there would be a modern-day Trojan Empire. Instead, all that's left is a slightly-inbred underground city. (Well, two cities, really--the actual living area and the constantly-being-destroyed-and-rebuilt, slightly-scaled-down wargame version of Troy.) Brutus trotted out the "London means 'New Troy', really!" line, but they quickly shackled him and threw him into a dungeon. Normally, I protect members of my party, but Brutus had done nothing to earn my loyalty, and they had a point. That's one thing my brain-trust missed: unable to get revenge on the Greeks or express their anger in any other way, they jumped on the first scapegoat that came along. Sehran thought it was all a bit much, but had to go along with the elders and the will of the people. The trial was later in the week, so I shall return to it further along.



The city's elders were sadly predictable…vindictive old men who didn't like the fact that a "girl" (she's 35) was in charge of things. (Having lived through both matriarchy and patriarchy, I can confidently say that matriarchy is superior. For some stupid reason, my former employer intended men to lead women, but I'm afraid that he included a design flaw--if women aren't supposed to lead men, why does every man have a built-in handle?) She parried them with grace and poise, however. Always dignified, but willing to challenge them when they acted unreasonable. They were far from my biggest supporters, I must say. I was utterly gentle and polite in my island suggestion, yet they acted as if I were some sort of monster. I offered them trade agreements, protection against any future enemies they might encounter (though reminding them how safe and isolated the island was), various blessings and useful magics (non-weaponized, of course; I also failed to mention that I possessed the original, superior recipe for their power potion), guarantees of comfortable afterlives, and more, but they were staunchly foolish. I was tempted to just steal the map, which would be quite easy, but I try to respect the Amended Magna Carta whenever possible.



They seemed to think that this "making the city truly secure" nonsense was actually possible. Nothing is ever perfect, and I pointed out that, should the Greek gods decide to attack them, no mere three-dimensional walls would keep them out. If they truly cared about security, rather than tradition, they'd recognize that being in a region off-limits to their enemy gods was the better option. But no, they ignored the reality of their situation, claiming that they were on the cusp of perfecting a new version of Troy. I wondered how many generations of their people had died thinking the exact same thing. Thereafter, I presented it as a quality-of-life issue for their people--a new beginning, a life where they wouldn't have to focus on the horrible things that might happen. This was greeted as naïve thinking, as if their military utopianism was not naïve. They refused to visit the island, and they frequently threatened to bypass their Queen and lock myself and the rest of my party up. Naturally, after I made a few subtle statements about my power and what it could do, should they so much as sternly glare at any member of my party, they were reduced to hiding under their table and calling for new undergarments. While that felt good, it didn't create any progress in our possible arrangement. Multiple meetings yielded only limited concessions to the facts, on their part.



While I was slogging through endless meetings with men that were quite obviously out of touch (they seemed to think the morale of the war-gamers was high), Tessa was exploding with artistry. It was as if all she'd needed was someone (the World Tree's messenger, in this case) to tell her that she was a genius-in-waiting; new ideas for sculptures had been flowing nonstop ever since. (Mortals are often that way. Once, in the heat of battle, Turk picked an extraordinarily-complicated lock and saved a group of innocent prisoners. This was a type of lock that he'd previously said he was unable to breach. He told me that, in his panic, he'd forgotten that he couldn't do it, and was thus able to do it. Now, that doesn't always work--humans jumping off cliffs thinking they can fly--but, my meaning should be clear.) Some were small, some were normal-sized, and some were quite large. As ever, she preferred to work with an audience, and watching her create was quite enthralling for both myself and the Trojans. The sheer passion and brilliance she exudes, when doing so…it's beyond words. Her friendship with Gwyn continued to develop (more on Gwyn's progress later), and she also became endeared to Sehran. Though one is a Queen and one is a barmaid-turned-deity-approved-artist, they have a common subject to talk about--myself--and that led to more in-depth conversations. Sometimes, late at night, I'll find myself reduced to a table, as they're both leaning over me and discussing various issues. If I get out of bed early, and each are present and half-awake, they usually end up snuggling with each other.



Their friendship is strictly platonic, however, unlike Lady Parston's new situation. On Monday, I thought I had my first sighting of her new beau…a tall, dark-haired gentleman who was alone with her in the guest-bedroom. She seemed quite nervous, which went along with my theory that she'd yet to let him inside her. However, all he could talk about (the mirror captures sound, remember) was how he feared that his wife was unfaithful, and could she discreetly find out if this was true? I recognized him as the husband of one of Lady Parston's many congregation-housewife-friends. On Tuesday, I saw Lady Parston meeting with this friend--a thin, doe-eyed redhead that had an amazingly tight bottom and literally no freckles. Lady Parston was rather halfheartedly going on about how her friend's husband was worrying that there was a new man in her life. Even though I was only watching on the mirror, I could detect an odd chemistry between the two, and I was unsurprised when Lady Parston's friend shushed her and began stroking her face, saying that she well knew there was no new man in her life. Though Lady Parston was shaking like an opium addict, she allowed her friend to kiss her, undress her, lay her down and spread her legs, etc. This was most entertaining. On the days that followed, it got easier for Lady Parston, I'm happy to say. Admittedly, they're both married, but legal monogamy can drive people to extreme ends. Judging by their pillow-talk, both are still going to Sunday services and keeping up appearances. Their initial passion has been somewhat eclipsed by fear, as they're rather trapped in their lives, and if they're found out, it isn't as if they can simply leave.



Speaking of religion, it was early in our time here that I learned that the various Trojan religious factions were having talks, in the hopes of relaxing various tensions. Aside from those who worship the ostensibly-disappointing horse gods, there are also those who worship the spider gods and those who have abandoned gods altogether. Within each believing group you have even more factions--disagreements over doctrine and how to practice their faith (yes, we need to tout the ivory steed idols every week; no, the six-eyed-mask-wearing ritual is not essential to salvation), etc.--and within the non-believing group, you have people who secretly still believe on some level but are turned off by the main denominations, people who don't believe at all but think the religions should be left alone, and people who don't believe at all but think the religions should be outlawed, as they're depressing and brainwashing otherwise-happy people. With so many crisscrossing avenues of conflict, along with their disheartening underground existence, sectarian stress is quite common. Sehran asked me to sit in on the talks as a neutral, experienced statesman, as a favor to her. I agreed, of course. But I somehow ended up in charge of the entire thing. Now, I've overseen negotiations between nations many times, but religions…this was new to me, and it was quite overwhelming. These talks were meant to undo hard feelings, but it was only strengthening them, and I was afraid that it was quite out of my power to change that, though I certainly did my best to keep things subdued.



Of the important members of my party, I'm afraid that I've given Gwyn the short-shrift, in my entries. There's just been so much going on that I haven't had time to detail her emerging curiousity. Ever since her relationship with Turk became more secure, this aspect of her has been growing exponentially. Remember, as a mystical creation, she's only several months old. Though she was not given false memories, she was given a sort of general awareness of reality--she can speak and understand the European languages, she knows how to use eating utensils, doors, etc. But beyond those basics, everything in life is new to her, especially the more exotic elements that we so often deal with. She was amazed by the chilled beauty of the Timberlands, the majesty of my pink castle, the antiquity of the Trojan twin cities. She's constantly asking questions, especially of me, given my life-experience. In fact, I believe that life-experience is the key, here…Turk grew up on the streets of London and has been adventuring with me ever since; I fear she may have felt slightly inadequate, in that area. But that's over. Last week, I encouraged her to grow as an individual, and she's already outperformed my wildest expectations. She's devoting her energy to discovering as much as possible, calling herself a disciple (which merely means "learner"). She's already taught herself enough of the Trojan language to be able to read, and she's devoured their archives. I asked her what she was a disciple of, and, after a moment's thought, she wisely said "Everything." She may just be the pair of fresh eyes I've been waiting for. And she certainly helped save the day, but that didn't come about until later.



Throughout this, the elders continued to vex Sehran and I. Sehran was convinced that her people would be both safer and better-off on the island, but the elders refused to listen, and they continued to refuse to visit it, so they could see for themselves. It would have been easy to have used my abilities to make them agree, but I do try to respect free will whenever possible. As with my religious negotiations, I wasted far too much time and energy dealing with crazy fears and denial-fueled hopes that came out of nowhere and had no basis in reality. Sehran and I simultaneously had a good idea, however--that the Trojan citizens should be allowed to visit the island, if they so desired, just so they could be fully-informed on their choices. If they reacted with even a fraction of the emotion that Sehran had, when she first saw the island, we'd be home-free. Yes, they've been living here and doing this for thousands of years. Yes, it should logically take several generations for them to even begin to grow out of it. But forget the useless cultural inertia known as tradition; anyone with a half-functioning brain should have immediately realized that a bright, laid-back, naturalistic existence was superior to their current one. Drawing inspiration from my religious negotiations, I knew that I had to challenge what they put their faith in--and in order to do so, all I'd have to do was introduce them to Raggedy Anders.



But before I get to that, I should continue Brutus' sad story. While the two sets of talks were going on, and while the others in my party were flourishing (though Turk was bored throughout most of it), Brutus was sitting in his cell, whimpering and continuing to evince his terrible table-manners. Brutus had actually begged Gwyn to review Trojan law for him and see if there was any clause that protected dead people, or those brought back from the dead, as he'd been. Sehran asked me if trials of the dead were unheard of in the above-ground world, and I had to be honest and say no. The foremost example was Pope Stephen VII digging up his predecessor's corpse and subjecting it to melodramatic railings. This statement resulted in Brutus trying to throw his feces-bucket at me. Now, let me digress. Many have unwisely believed that I'm somehow deceitful, manipulative, or the like, as they believe the interpretation of my found in my former employer's book. (Which, I'm pleased to report, has little in the way of production values. Oooh, gargantuan lumps of text! How very pleasing to the eye!) At any rate, no, I always try to be truthful. There may be a lot of talk in the book about how I allegedly lie, but, really, are there any direct examples? Yes, I told the luscious Eve that eating the apple would make her more like my former employer…and surely enough, it did, greatly expanding her awareness. It's not my fault that I misjudged how my former employer would react to it. And when I attempted to hire away a certain messiah, did I pretend to be someone else? No, I was clearly myself, and I promised him only things I could have delivered. How could I be such a respected statesman if my reputation were that of a dishonest man? Bah! I must find a way to sue the Church for slander and libel, I tell you.



I'm afraid that I've gotten off-track. But, admittedly, Brutus' travails do not interest me. I told him that he could still be of use to me--his trial could serve as an emotional valve for the Trojans, as it were. I detected much repressed (and not-so-repressed) anger in my two sets of talks, and his trial might provide a way for them to get it out of them. Their culture failed, and their society was all but lost, leaving them hugely frustrated…if they got those feelings out by directing them at him, it might allow more room in their minds for rationality and calm. i.e., they might stop being crazy and accept my island offer, so I can get the map. I guaranteed him that I wouldn't let them execute him…or, if they did, I'd bring him back at a later date. This did not satisfy him, for some reason. To keep him from misbehaving, I threatened to make him King of the Western Isles once again--a prospect he greatly feared, as he has this odd theory about how that place eats up royal families. That said, despite his abject terror of being tried and the bouts of incontinence that have resulted from it, he seems more comfortable, now. This underground colony is very much a bubble of the past, and he prefers past to present. Also, he continually dropped hints about why he'd forsaken his Trojan heritage in founding the Western Isles, apparently wanting me to ask him about some Big Important Secret that I hadn't even thought existed, but I ignored him. I didn't care, and I figured it would come out at the trial, which started the day after that conversation…I was quite right.



After introducing the elders to Raggedy Anders--though he looks like a doll, they were wisely afraid of him--I offered them a deal. They'd improved their mock Troy so much, over the generations, perhaps they would be kind enough to let Anders test it? After all, they'd only been attacking it with Trojan methods. Why not let an outsider try, to see what they learned? And, if he did successfully penetrate its defenses, they'd let me take a group of Trojans to the island, just to show them around. They thought it was ridiculous--one man against an army, in addition to a walled city that they'd been strengthening for ages--so they agreed. In lieu of swords, they were to use truncheons of a similar length…staffs that were dense, but non-lethal. Anders, being listless up to this point, rapidly agreed. (His Trojan experience had mainly consisted of being mobbed by children, who think him a magical playmate. Ironically, he hates them, though they can't tell.) The people of Troy flocked to watch this test (from outside the other city's walls, of course), as they have little in the way of entertainment. And let me pause to praise the Trojans for their underground source of light--bat-sized fireflies that live on both their cavern ceilings and on their buildings' ceilings. They're quite domesticated, and I understand they burn their waste away, so no mess.



The game, essentially, was shatter the orb, with the orb being in the innermost sanctum of their life-sized model of Troy. The soldiers were armed with sword-length truncheons and blunt arrows, while Raggedy Anders had two such truncheons for himself. Normally, one group would defend the city while another attacked (and they'd use the process to discover weaknesses or flaws in their design), but for this, both groups were on defense. Their job was to keep him out, his job was to show he could break in. Being something of a showman (I believe he traveled with a Chinese circus, for a time), Anders began his first incursion by scaling the sheer city walls and dueling with turret sentries, before vanishing inside. It was a mere hour before he smashed the orb. He fought through one-fifth of the guards and evaded the other four-fifths. The Trojans were shocked, and demanded another chance. While Turk and I took the first group of citizens on the island tour, the wargamers made adjustments. Despite that, the next time, he smashed the orb without touching or being seen by a single guard. There was another island tour, more adjustments. For his third and final break-in, he purposely took on as many guards as he could, defeating every single one of them (except for those who gave up, fainted, or ran), and only then breaking the orb. This took a good twelve hours. The elders were humiliated, and my plan had worked--they'd both overexaggerated and overestimated the military progress they'd made, with the city; it was time to bring them down to earth, in the hopes they'd stop being unrealistic.



That wasn't the only show going on, however. While Raggedy Anders showed them their limits, Brutus' trial gave them the emotional release they'd been waiting for. It was less a trial and more a series of shouting people, however. Everyone who was anyone stood up and accused him of betraying their culture, abandoning them (they assumed Brutus had known of their colony's existence, back then; he had not), etc. Sehran was the most reasonable, asking him specific, non-angry questions that clarified the circumstances and his mindset at the time of founding the Western Isles. But he still wouldn't reveal why he hadn't molded his new nation in his original nation's image. I was called as a material witness, though they were most polite, with me. I told them that I didn't venture into the mortal plane all that much, in those days--after my former employer stuck me with the ugliest job he could think of (giving me dominion over the dead), I spent the next several milennia pouring time and thought into my fledgling Nation, largely ignoring mortal affairs. Yes, I had limited contact with some major human figures, including Brutus, but that was only when their interests coincided with mine. The Western Isles had some key resources and situations that attracted my involvement. When helping him develop his empire, I'd never thought to ask him why he hadn't continued the Trojan legacy. I said that I'd later helped Rome in the same way, and hadn't asked Romulus such a question, either.



Mentioning Rome was a mistake: that was two empires that had been founded by descendants of survivors of Troy; two missed opportunities. This produced a new strain of ranting. But when my part was over, Brutus was on the stand once again, taking verbal abuse and either sobbing or trying to act mysterious. The citizens divided their time between the trial and Anders' wargames. There were some slight scheduling mixups, when the beginning of the next wargame overlapped with the end of the day's segment of the trial, or the trial would run late and people would check their prototypical, discus-sized pocketwatches nervously (one of my gifts to them), not wanting to miss Anders' opening flourish. Initially, the trial was considered more fun, as one never knew what was going on inside the Troy model during the wargames. It was just a matter of shocked, bruised soldiers drifting out, giving bits and pieces of information, until the official result was announced. But for Anders' last orb-smashing--when he took on everyone--I made it so that the people could watch it in my mirror, though I increased the mirror's size twentyfold, so all could see. (I'd seen the previous two, as well, thanks to my mystical remote-viewing.) This made me quite amazingly popular. At any rate, after several days of trial, some of the Trojans became weary of the constant raging. They'd gotten it out of their systems, and were now ready to move on.



Inducing realism and anger-release were just two of my three gambits, however. I considered the island expeditions to be my ace in the hole. Unsurprisingly, younger Trojans were more enthusiastic about visiting it, though women of all ages were also open to the idea, as they looked up to Sehran, a strong island supporter. Turk mainly led the tours--I was constantly busy with my two sets of negotiations, the trial, the wargames, keeping up with Tessa's artistic progress, answering questions for Gwyn, helping Sehran and Tessa use the royal baptistry for purposes it was not originally intended, etc. I'd say that nine out of every ten visitors loved the island, and the tenth was usually only hesitant because it was new and different; they had no logical reason for why it was bad. Turk had a difficult time getting some of them to return through the portal. Gwyn accompanied him on these trips, exploring the island as part of her new work. Obviously, none of the Trojans had ever seen an ocean, before, and they couldn't resist the urge to jump in, though some were initially terrified. Their only experience with water was bathing--they didn't understand the notion of public swimming while wearing undergarments--so more than one island excursion turned into a skinny-dipping orgy. Gwyn came back scandalized and bright red several times. Indeed, an island mentality began to sweep through their culture, as they realized that there was more to the world than their glorified cave. No reason to be paranoid about future wars, just relax and take it easy.



I'd be lying if I said my plan was a perfect success…while the people were becoming less focused on doom and gloom, the elders were in classic denial about their little military experiment. They still believed they could build an impregnable Troy. But their soldiers, architects (the architectural class was very prominent, as they were the ones who kept improving the model city), and military leaders were beginning to come around. Raggedy Anders had impressed them, and his word now carried great weight. He made them understand that theirs was a futile task, and that the island was the more sensible, secure option. He described himself as barely powerful…and if he could storm the city, imagine what the Greek gods could do. The elders tried to claim that they had magic that could offset it, but my brain-trust was right--their magical development has stagnated, during their time in isolation. Their rigid existence ruled out the creativity needed to develop mystical things. (I believe their culture, and not isolation itself, is the culprit, here. The Clocksmen--who control a portion of the Timberlands not far from this very spot--have been isolated for a long time, but have made many amazing developments nonetheless.) Despite increasing public pressure, the elders refused to acknowledge reality. I imagine we would have been stuck in this phase for a significant period of time, if not for Raggedy Anders actually making a friend.



This new player's emergence came about because of two factors: Raggedy Anders' fame among the locals, and the Trojans unleashing their rage and frustration on Brutus. It turns out that one of the Trojan families have a living toy--he'd been keeping his sentience secret, all this time. He's an unpainted wooden soldier, made of a pale, smooth maple. He approached Anders, thrilled that a fellow living toy was there. (Anders started out as a small doll, but during his human years, he grew, and when he returned to being a toy, he kept his height.) He said his name was Rohjanastra, but Anders just calls him Rohj. This tiny gentleman was quite overwhelmed and exhausted, I must say. In his time being passed down within his owner family, generation after generation of children had taken out their fears using him. He considers himself something of a living artistic medium, as he was used to express emotion. Small ones played with him and his fellow troops, pretending they were carrying out endless wars and ridiculously-dense precautions, sacrificing happiness and a future to protect against vague, unseen enemies, only to grow up to do that in reality. Being a soldier, he has no problem with such things--but when they become mandatory obsessions, that's another matter. Each new generation has been increasingly frantic when projecting their inner selves onto him, knowing that they're digging a hole they can't get out of. He begged Anders and myself to stop these children from growing up with only one path in life, and I got an idea from the fortress play-set that had once been his home.



With Anders' wargames being over, the trial was now their sole source of excitement, and most had already tired of it. (Indeed, the trials were now sparsely-attended, and the vindictiveness being directed towards Brutus had become halfhearted and often nonsensical.) Seeing an opportunity, I announced that a new sort of event would take place in the city square, on a certain date. I played it up as a mystery, and Sehran and my aides helped spread the word and generate interest. Most thought it would have to do with Tessa unveiling some secret new piece of artwork (she sometimes worked in private, now), but, no. On the appointed morning, literally every Trojan showed up, including the elders. I revealed a different model of Troy--rather than being life-sized, as their wargame one was, it was only thigh-high and the size of a city block. I once again enlarged and used the mirror, so all could see what was happening. There were many tiny, mystically-artificial automatons running about in it, representing Trojan and Greek soldiers. With the Queen's permission, I'd studied the real model's progress, and made my model reflect it. I'd also made the automatons intelligent enough to both improve the city's defenses and improve their methods of penetrating those defenses. I told them that I was going to create a time-bubble around it and speed through the wargames and changes, so they could see their logical outcome.



A glowing ball of light appeared over the model--green meant that the defenses had held (or that they'd made improvements and were ready to try again), red meant that they hadn't. Toy battles blurred apace, and the light alternated between green and red. The crowd kept waiting for it to remain green, proving that their ideal could indeed be achieved. I told them that each minute was actually a month. So, when about a half-hour passed without a permanent green light, they weren't worried, as that was under three years. The city evolved rapidly, becoming more menacing and generally different. As the day wore on, the red light kept appearing, and their cultural underpinnings began to crumble, I'm afraid. I really wish there had been a gentler way of making them understand, but this was the best I could think of. (That said, I believe my influence on the military realists and the island's subversion of the common citizens greatly softened the blow.) I increased the strength of the time-bubble, making it so that a minute now represented a year-long span. (Before I started all this, I drained the oxygen out of the bubble, as the rapidly-moving wooden toys would have ended up on fire, due to friction. We can't have a bunch of flaming automatons running about.) It became clear that they wouldn't reach their goal within their lifetimes, or even within this milennium. Around suppertime, the crowd began to thin out.



The elders and their staunch supporters were still on the edge of their proverbial seats, thinking they'd achieve perfection at any moment, but they were increasingly alone. However, they refused to give up, holding to this ancient failsafe law and ceasing contact with myself and Sehran, having barricading themselves in their upper room. Now, normally, adherance to the law in the face of public pressure is a good thing, yes. But not in this case.



Though I'd successfully won over the majority of the public with that little display, I thereafter made a major error, I'm afraid. By that point, trips to the island had become much more socially acceptable, and we needed no elaborate pretense ( i.e., Anders prevailing in the wargames) to take a group. The day after most had given up hope for both my model and their own, Turk took a group of about sixty to the island. These were individuals who had been reluctant to go--the horse-god faithful, mainly, with a few military denialists. They'd simply succumbed to social pressure to give this other place a look. This was when the elders had similarly given in to the notion of allowing extended stays on the island: young people were camping out for a few days at a time. The new visitors saw how the next generation was carrying on, in this world of tropical freedom, and they realized they'd lost them forever. I imagine that this helped prompt what happened next. You see, there are many concealment spells that both protect and limit their colony. This includes a spell that prevents outgoing mystical communications, to prevent any hypothetical rogue Trojans from revealing their existence to the outside world. This has kept them from carrying out one of their oldest rituals: conjuring up the presence of their horse-gods.



Despite the fact that I'm utterly irreligious, I've long encouraged Turk to respect the beliefs of others, albeit just to a reasonable point. So when the reluctant tourists began carrying out this ritual, he kept his distance. (Had Gwyn been there, she would have recognized what it was and warned him, but she was still taking pity on Brutus and poring over ancient law tomes, which was quite fortunate, all things considered.) They chanted, lit a fire, and raised their hands to the heavens, but nothing happened. This process repeated a number of times. With the concealment spell, the Trojans had been in a situation where they were unable to contact their gods for thousands of years. And they were dying to find out why they hadn't helped them, during the war. For all of the colony's history, one question had dominated their religious discussions: why had their gods allowed their city to fall? There were many theories, of course. Maybe it was punishment. Maybe they'd been abandoned. Maybe they'd not carried out the commands strongly enough. Eventually, a spectral centaur appeared, and he was quite irate with the lot of them. He said their calls were giving him a head-ache, and that he'd never heard of any of their so-called gods. When Turk saw their facial reactions to this statement, he knew that things were about to get quite bad. I really should have seen this coming, but I'm not the flawless schemer that some make me out to be.



Now, let me momentarily interject a relevant point. I've long thought that philosophies predicated on black and white beliefs and either/or scenarios are foolish and simplistic. But, as I'm not an absolutist, I do have exceptions to my anti-absolutism. Which is to say, I've long held that, if one is to believe in something, it must be either decidedly real or openly unreal, with no in-between. Sentient creatures can handle disappointment, but non-existence is something else entirely. If you put all your hope in a certain god, you may find out that it does not exist. But if you put all your hope in your fellow beings, the chances are very minimal that you'll find out that they do not exist. Likewise, many people are drawn to legends or ideas, or faiths they do not truly believe in, or gods they know to be real, which are all perfectly safe. But if you spend your life devoted to something you thought was real, and it turns out not to be, well…it's quite mentally shattering, from what I've seen. And I must admit to making things a bit worse. I'd originally thought my religious sect negotiations were futile, but I'd convinced the majority of the various denominations' representatives--who were moderates--to be less dogmatic and work together for the good of Trojan society. This had quite alienated the extremists, the foremost of whom had tried to contact their gods on the island.



In response to their conversation with the centaur, Turk wisely took a brief leave of them and went through the portal to fetch myself and Raggedy Anders. I alerted Sehran, but she was unsure of the jurisdictional issues, and gave me permission to contain the situation in a reasonable manner, while she consulted with the elders. So, the three of us arrived just as the tourists had retreated deep into the jungle. The partying youngsters were unnerved, as they'd apparently been threatened by the older colonists. They'd believed that their gods had been the only real gods, and that if they didn't exist, the moral code they'd derived from them was meaningless…which meant they could do whatever they wanted, as they had no reward or punishment waiting for them on the other side. This is just another reason why one must anchor themselves to something non-ambiguous, in terms of existence: moreso than any other type of belief-system, religions centered around behavior-based cosmic bribery produce the largest fallout, should they turn out to be false. If you find out that the pantheon that didn't require all that much of you doesn't exist, you should be able to handle it nobly. But if you've worked your entire life to get some afterlife prize, and you find out that your effort is in vain, you become exceedingly dangerous and lacking in foundation. This is why I've long stressed that importance be placed on the common good and the like--so citizens will have a mutual interest in maintaining society. Why such a notion is considered dangerous by so many, I've no idea.



This is all a very complex way of saying that the reluctant tourists went off the deep end and began sharpening sticks in preparation for a cultural-last-gasp rampage.



It was a rather short fight, I'll grant you that. After dispatching Turk and Anders to protect the younger colonists, I sought out the reactionaries, which took virtually no time at all. Now that it was clear that they had nothing to gain by being pious, I'm afraid they were quite savage, making all sorts of threats and waving their sticks at me menacingly. I launched into a long, dry lecture on how cultures that are obsessed with some foreign enemy inevitably end up being destroyed by internal, domestic problems, as they've been expending all their energy outward, with no inward restrengthening of what actually made their nation work in the first place. They reacted to this reasoned observation by attempting to kill me. I laughed off the thrown sticks and turned the lot of them into statues, as a temporary measure. Or at least, that's what I intended it to be, but Sehran thought they should be left like that, as attempted murder resulted in lifetime imprisonment, and being non-sentient statues was better than suffering in their rat-infested dungeons. She also thought they'd serve as a good example to others, should anyone else think of going too far. With their grotesque, desperate expressions frozen in stone, making their reaction to reality look wholly unattractive, I believe she's quite right.



Now, if there's one thing the Timberlands and the Trojan colony have in common, it's that they're both drenched in the past; in a perceived golden age that they've exaggerated the quality of. It's been my experience that, while such societies may idolize the past, they tend to remain woefully ignorant of it. So, I wasn't terribly surprised by what happened, upon our return from the island battle. Gwyn came rushing up to us, an excited look in her eye--I thought she was just happy to see the safe return of her lover. But, in reviewing Trojan law to help the plight of Brutus (I shall have more on that situation later), she'd stumbled across something quite interesting. Every single time Sehran and I sat down with the elders, they mentioned that one certain law, which requires them to complete a perfected version of Troy, before they're allowed to leave. As it became clear that the task was impossible, and that the island was the better choice, they clung to that law with a desperate fervor, knowing it was the only recourse they had. (And, as Sehran consistently pointed out, there are many other laws that have to do with the government's responsibility to its people, which they couldn't care less about. They just like the one.) Gwyn said that she'd found that law, and that we all needed to visit the archives and see it for ourselves.



Before we get to that, let me offer context. The colony was created for the specific purpose of military research, remember. Natural Borders and all that. There were papers detailing how the whole thing was to be set up, in terms of civilian government and military order. (And when Troy fell, Sehran's ancestor was made King, and all the other powers and offices of Troy were accorded to the colony's tiny government, as they were the last bastion of their culture. But that isn't particularly relevant, here.) And I should say, I've noticed a trend, when it comes to both nation-founding documents and religious documents. Sehran even mentioned it herself. As a child, she'd read all of their dusty old parchments, as had the other schoolchildren. But she'd never seriously examined them with adult eyes. And, as has happened so many other times, the interpretation had come to overshadow the actual text. A literal translation of the law revealed nothing about the famed failsafe clause--though they were to devote their existence to achieving security, there was nothing that said that redesigning Troy was their only option, or that they couldn't leave until they'd perfected it. I imagine that a bit of hyperbole ("We can't leave until we've finished the city!") passed down through the ages, being mistaken as gospel. The elders were shocked to hear about this, and the Trojan citizens were both shocked and (mostly) thrilled.



I suppose it's time to reveal why I'm making this quest in the first place. Yes, I hate complaining, but I must mention this problem, as I've encountered it both in the past several weeks and throughout time immemorial, with the countless humans that have died and entered my Nation. Sentient beings--not just mortals--have a tendency to misinterpret situations, obsess over problems that only exist in their minds, and base their lives around cultural inertia. The various humanoid species simply have bad mind-habits, if you will. And they bring those habits with them when they join my Nation, which makes the whole thing my problem. It took time for me to realize that happy lives produce happy afterlives, and that if I want my subjects to have fewer destructive mind-habits--making them both safer and easier to manage--I must go directly to the root of the problem. This, of course, is the living world. Frankly, life had traumatized them more than death (some were actually thrilled to be dead). If this little mortal-plane trip accomplishes what I wish it to, I shall make my future subjects healthier and more enlightened while simultaneously annoying my former employer. Everyone wins! And in order to do that, I merely need the map that brought me here in the first place…which I've just now obtained.



As I write this, both my aides and the Trojans are packing things up. With no legal leg to stand on, the elders were quickly overwhelmed by public pressure. Oh, some have chosen to stay and continue the wargames (the elders among them), but most are heading for the island. I teleported in the natural-science man I have in my brain-trust, who helped the Trojans find sources of food, water, workable wood, etc. (Their aboveground cover-village had been their previous supplier, hunting and raising gardens, but their culinary choices were quite limited. On the island, all sorts of exotic things will be available, and the water is much cleaner.) They'll stay in the ruins until their new villages are complete; with so many ex-wargamers being architects, that shouldn't take terribly long. Sehran is wisely portraying this as a new start for their culture; the rebirth they'd been waiting for. The elders notwithstanding, Sehran and the rest of the government have moved to the island, which they've named New Troy. I took her underneath our favorite waterfall, early this morning, and I imagine that I won't see her or her gloriously protruding rear for some time after this. Quite depressing. (And, while on the subject of sex: women being smarter than men, none of them stayed behind--all went to the island. So, I have a feeling the dead-enders will die out within a generation.)



Yesterday, I teleported back to my mortal-plane castle to tie up some affairs. Col. Lindscott handled things quite well in my longer-than-planned absence, and I instructed him to gather everyone and meet us due southeast, at the covered bridge that leads out of the Timberlands and onto the legendary Sun Way. The castle shall be mystically sealed; I'm keeping it as a holiday home. Romulus behaved himself, and he's taken me up on my mysterious (to him) offer to get even with the Church, given that it's ruling his old country. I offered the ghostly Timberlands royal family a place of honor in my Nation--since they've been stuck in the same place for ages, they hastily took me up on the offer. (I understand that his middle daughter has already found a suitor, a kindly barbarian prince from the Steppes. Love and its various forms of expression blossom in death as well as life, I'll have you know.) Though I've no doubt that the castle will be fine, I felt it would be good for someone to house-sit, if you will. So, I teleported directly into Lady Parston's guest bedroom, only to find her and her red-haired love goddess wrestling in the nude underneath thin sheets. As I suspected, both liked the idea of escaping into a secluded life. Lady Parston's lover's husband is quite the abusive lout, and the children will be safer away from him. And they'll still have a two-parent household, which my former employer is always stressing the importance of! Huzzah! After giving them a chance to pack, I teleported the five of them to the castle. (Lady Parston still couldn't bear to tell her husband the truth, as it would hurt him, so vanishing may be the only way to make him realize that he's lost her. That way, he can move on, as well. Perhaps I shall set him up with one of Tessa's older friends.)



Speaking of Tessa, I've gathered all of her sculptures, big and small, and stored them in my infinity sack for safekeeping. Our next destination shall have a museum worthy of her genius, so she can make her social debut as an artist. Things have been going quite well between us, thanks in large part to her talent establishing her as my equal. (She may have faded into the background, narrative-wise, but that's only because she's been so busy with her art.) She'll also miss Sehran, just in a different way than I. Speaking of friends, Raggedy Anders' fellow living toy, Rahj, has chosen to come with us. Oh, he'd love to move to the island, letting the sun melt away his weariness while he watches his owners finally achieve happiness…but he feels that he's an artifact from Old Troy, and he doesn't want to remind them of that time. Very noble of him, if you ask me. Turk is more attracted than ever to the increasingly-confident Gwyn. She's found her role in life, and she's anxious to learn even more about the world, so I've let her look through my books, and given her a translation blessing that enables her to understand all languages. She hopes to use her growing expertise to help whoever she can. Turk is becoming more skilled with his fencing every day, thanks in large part to Anders' training. Anders has a personal connection with our next stop, so he'll continue to tag along.



I've only left one person out, of course. Ahh, Brutus. I initially took him to be wiser than Romulus, as he cooperated with me and realized the dangers associated with being blue-blooded in the Western Isles…but no, that was merely weak will and self-preservation. No verdict ever came about in his trial. It wasn't a hung jury, it was simply a case of people--including the prosecutors and judicial council--ceasing to show up. As the Trojans' future went from dreadfully predictable to vibrantly alive, the past looked much less important. Ironically, this happened right as Brutus grew to thrive in his scapegoat role. He was every bit the exaggerated, silly-evil stage villain, refusing to reveal why he'd "betrayed" Troy by not naming his new empire after it, and claiming that he'd truly been the one to finish off their culture, rather than the Greeks. He was being ridiculous, of course…since he lives in hiding, and can't go back to his nation, the Trojans were the only ones who thought of him as powerful and important. He may like being free from his homeland, but he misses significance. One day, he woke up to discover that his cell was open, as his jailers had departed for the island. He now sits in an empty courtroom, delivering lengthy monologues about his supposed might and influence. I've allowed him to stay here. I have a feeling that the remaining Trojans may eventually tap into his experience. I read his mind to discover his secret; something about wanting an empire named after himself, as names are vastly important in magic. He's built up quite a mystical cache for himself, by doing that. What precisely he's going to do with all that stored-away energy, I'm not entirely certain.



Incidentally, my spies returned from our avian neighbor country, and they say that some sort of enchanted weapons smithery over-loaded and blew up, puncturing the border between our realms. Their working theory is that a rogue faction of avians are secretly developing these weapons in order to carry out a coup. Apparently, their government has been quite corrupt and ineffective, in recent years. The faction is quite ideologically attractive, to me, and they hope to carry out the coup in a bloodless manner. The diplomats sent to question me had no idea, as they're on the establishment side of things. I've given Steward Dramicus permission to give aid and comfort to these rebels, as we could use another ally. At the moment, the only nation we're on close terms with is Limbo, ruled by The Exile. He's the master of inter-dimensional energy, don't you know.



At any rate, Turk was remarkably impatient to find out "the big deal" about this map. I told him that it showed the way to a certain place, the location of which had been obscured from me by my former employer. I also told him that this place would be hard to access, and that our next stop was a city where we could get some help. An old friend of mine lives there, and, ironically, it's named after one of my employees. Turk is always reading those flimsy threepenny manuscripts that tell of various kinds of adventures; he prefers the "heist" ones, with his past as a pickpocket and second-story man. To make it more palatable, I told him that we were going to break into and rob the place that the map will lead us to. He asked what this place was, and I told him that it was the Garden of Eden. If my plan for humanity is to succeed, I must retrieve something from there.





[Ed. note--further entries exist, but have yet to be translated. Please give our Office several weeks to perform this task. If this account is accurate, we can only assume that history is wrong about how "the monopoly" was ended. Political/cultural/religious ramifications? I hope they don't cost us our jobs…]

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Follow-Ups:

* I really enjoyed this. - Al B. Harper - Sat Dec 16, 2006 at 07:02:00 am EST * You are too kind with your praise, my compatriot. There shall be another installment! More women, more exotic adventures, more women, more ancient intrigue, and more ··· (no text) - The Dainty Satan - Sat Dec 16, 2006 at 12:50:50 pm EST * I'll look forward to it, and welcome to the board. (no text) - Al B. Harper - Sat Dec 16, 2006 at 04:34:56 pm EST * An amusing narrative from a rather original character. Nicely done! (no text) - Visionary - Fri Dec 15, 2006 at 04:46:48 pm EST * Thank you, my good man! Yes, it's the Dainty Satan Diaries: Magic, mystery and mild mayhem! (Warning: Some amorous content; not for young urchins.) (no text) - The Dainty Satan - Fri Dec 15, 2006 at 01:24:44 pm EST * Will read this afternoon (no text) - killer shrike - Fri Dec 15, 2006 at 07:16:55 am EST * I've read the first bit and it looks really good. Alas, I don't have time to read the rest at the moment - I will get to it later. (no text) - Manga Shoggoth - Fri Dec 15, 2006 at 06:54:58 am EST * Your friend may be internet challenged but not isn't writing challenged (no text) - HH - Fri Dec 15, 2006 at 04:56:11 am EST * Unlike me, who should have typed: Your friend may be internet challenged but isn't writing challenged - HH, early in the morning - Fri Dec 15, 2006 at 04:56:54 am EST

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