The TaleMaster 10 …. Tidbit

This little tale started itself about a dozen years ago. It was originally a couple of pages, a  background for a D&D character. Then came a dream or three which added so much more. Life & Death interfered for many years. I’ve begun dreaming of this tale again, recently. This will eventually be a book, I hope.

Link to all of TaleMaster

So please, go get yourself a tall cold beverage, adjust your reading glasses and settle into your comfy chair and join me in the City of Colours…

His conversation with Ylrial, the Goldsmith, of the previous evening replays clearly in his mind as he drifts into that place between reality and dreams. His viewpoint shifts suddenly and he is outside himself, somehow high above and looking down on himself. It is as if he was another being entirely, sitting on a ledge high in the cavernside, looking down on the dwarf and man conversing.

   ” Well, they are off on their own adventure. It gets harder and harder each time. Maybe I’m just getting old. Let us move to the far side of the fire, it is less damp there. ”

   ” You! Old? Why you’re just a youngling!” states the old man, settling himself more comfortably into the cushioned barrel chair.

    ” And you Sirrah, how many ages have you seen?” asks the dwarf, holding the tellers eyes with his own gold flecked orbs. “You have been here… ”

   ” Oh, too, too many seasons to recount them all. Only a tale here and there survives.”

   ” Well, Sirrah, I too have a tale. One I’ve thought for some time that I should tell.” He rises to tend the fire, his movements unhurried yet purposeful. Fuel and judicious use of bellows, added in exactly the right proportions, raises the heat against the dampness in the cavern behind the falls while maintaining the soft golden glow of close camaraderie.

     ” This is not a true tale, only overheard and passed on, which is why I think you have never been told of it. Nor does it have a beginning and an end. A small story only, little more than a mere piece of information. One I think you do not know of, although it dates to the time before.”

Seth leans in, filling the GoldSmiths cup, one bushy eyebrow raised in query.

“The time of The BlackFist this is from. You have heard there was once more majik in the land?  It is this time of which I speak, the majik time.

During this time and before there were men of great majik. North past the Mohz Mountains and west for three days by cart, there lies the ruins of a citadel, I am told. This is where the men of majik once gathered. It once was a busy thriving place with a township at it’s feet, serving the needs of those within.  In the beginning they gathered together there, away from the world, to pool their knowledge and resources, pursue their studies.  They hoped to achieve greatness by cooperation, and in their greatness sway the will of the Gods.”

Taking a large draught from his cup Ylrial mutters, “What foolish beings men are at times.”

“By the time of the Blackfist the township had fallen to ruins, it’s timbers being used as firewood. The few towns-folk who remained had moved into empty areas of the citadel. Not many of the magik men were left, less than ten by all accounts, although the numbers vary. Their quarreling over spells and power had greatly reduced their numbers. Yet despite that, or mayhap because of it, the greed of concentrated power overtook them once more. The group splintered, barely avoiding a great battle using weapons of majik.

All the other tales I’ve heard of that time agree that the majik men stayed in thier citadel & gradually they died one by one, until one day a passing merchant found no living being, nothing but bones. This one version, passed down from the Blacksmiths son Alriac, tells a different tale.

Two of the men left from there and made their way east and south from the citadel. What happened to the others I know not. Word of the two and their travels reached the caverns of the Blackfist. It was said they made their way south, along the western side of the Mohz ridge. Going from community to community they traveled, trading rare herbs and seeds or small majiks for shelter, food and suitable clothing. By doing this all along their route they traded and gathered their way south along the ridge, acquiring what they needed to go on.

Sirrah, I have worked metal all my life. I learned from my sire what he learned from his and all that he discovered himself, just as my sire did before me. Some of the farmsteads there-about claim to have majik sharpened knives, passed from father to son since that time. Now, I have never seen one of these blades or held it in my hands, but I cannot see how a blade could remain nearly flawless, year after year for hundreds of years  through so many uses I cannot count.

And it was also said these two left the Mohz range behind and were last seen heading across the prairie fields. You and I both know there is nothing but desert from here to the Mohz. Oh, there is a spit of grassland there, and another here, and both extend a little more each year, but by and large the area is a desert wasteland!

It is this doubt within me that has at last required I share this with you. Why? Why would this be the only account I have ever heard that says anything different? ”

“Ah. That I don’t know, my friend. This is the first detail I have heard of the citadel.” At the dwarfs sharp glance he hurriedly continues “Oh, no, I’ve heard of the citadel and of course the majik before. This is the first I’ve heard of any particulars of its becoming deserted or of any specific people there, or from there.

I’ve heard, as we all have- numerous times, of how once long ago the majik was stronger & there were men who wielded this power. And how some of these men became almost drunk with that power, forgetting that real lives hung in the balance, wanting only more and more power, willing to sacrifice anything and everything to get it. These are the tales still told to discourage the bullying ones, to teach them before they grow into petulant tyrants.

Any tale dwarven told I give great credence to, Ylrial. Many others have the ring of truth at first telling, but when their back trail is followed the path shows little in the way of truth. Tales change over time when told by humans. They change words, exaggerate points to make the story more exciting or worse, destroy the truth as written and put foul lies in its place, to promote their own ends.”

The firelight flickers over the features of dwarf and man, highlighting their similarities. The two settle deeper into their chairs. Behind the roar of the waterfall, a companionable silence descends, engulfing them for a time.

“What was the news from Y’rbos?”

Startled, Seth sits upright, blinking. “Y’rbos?”

He is suddenly in a large cavern, so large he can’t make out the ceiling. Moisture is dripping somewhere, making a large echo-ey… drrr-riip….drrr-riip The shadows move, shifting, forming at last into the dragon….

to be continued….

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