Fantasy A Gothic Reverie

[Elephantom]

The Stygian Man​

A faint commotion in the night, coming from the outside the forest lines. The bushes split apart, rending to the will of a man— he was no stranger to the wild. He bent down to watch, flat against the ground and not mindful about the grit.

He spied as the bandits passed by, laughing between themselves and sharing insights on their recent exploit. The merchants behind them were tied up, packed tight into their own wagons, and given a few blessings of fortune. Ironic, consider that a share of the caravan's men were symposian clergymen. Among the caravan, the armed guards got it the worst, because they held a wisdom of arms. They'd been smart enough to accept their fates, complying, and shutting their gobs before they could spout out bullshit. The rest of the merchants followed their lead, quiet and dismal as they were strung up. He knew, they knew, the bandits knew: a few rolls of fat can do scant little against a blade.

Sulayman watched the proceedings with detached interest, fascinated but apathetic. Once the bandits were gone— highwaymen, why doth thou pursue fairest of thine merchants?— he climbed down his vantage point, feet sliding and scraping against the barren grounds. The stone road, ill maintained judging by the weeds growing from the cracks and uneven tablets, led him to the caravan. The wagons were deprived of their wheels and fortune, driven to a side of the road. Standing out, in the middle, was a grand coach big enough to half a dozen men. The leader's, he supposed.

The horses whinnied as he came nearer, a bit scared, but likely just annoyed. He opened the door of the coach and peeked inside. The merchants were muzzled with rope from top to bottom, some queer punishment no doubt, sulking on the seats and the floor. They looked like a hapless lot, losers of the society. Bloody whiteskins. Pathetic, all of them. They took a few moments to register his presence. Confusion, to astonishment, to joy.

They exclaimed for help, gags giving their voice a muffled, slurred quality. Sulayman observed their desperation. Pathetic fools indeed. “What brings you to such conditions, men?” he asked, arching his brows.

They answered with strangled shrieks, right next to his ear. The pinks were not only ignorant idiots, they were also very loud. The Stygian winced, shook his head, and leaned forward to remove the bindings from one of their mouth. Their chief, he presumed. He wore the most dyed robe. “We were robbed!” the chief cried. Of course you were. You deserve it after all, whiteskin.

“That I can see,” Sulayman mused. “Why did they do it?”

The chief's mouth hinged open, having gotten a good look at him. “Barbarian!”

He shifted to one side, letting his hammer catch the moon's light. “Is there any problem?”

The merchant flinched, cowed by the visible gesture. “N-no sir, I meant the barbarians who attacked us,” he stammered.

Sulayman smiled, leaning against the frame of the wagon's door. “As fate wills it, friend. I will do as I ought to, but what do you want?” I want to slit your throat, cur, save you from your own misery.

There was a glimmer of hope in the merchant's eyes. “I implore you to help us, Stygian!” he urged.

“Very well,” Sulayman said. “Before you were robbed of your monies,” and your dignity, “what goods were you carrying?”

The merchant's eyes almost popped out, bulging with outrage. His fear was greater, however. “Spice,” he said, through gritted teeth, “silk, and weapons.”

Sulayman grinned. “Good for business, eh?”

The chief paused, stuttered, and said, “Well, yes, ah, I suppose.”

“What was your destination?”

The merchant gulped. Tension was rife in the air. “Calun,” he said.

Why bother? “Now, tell me man,” he began, paused. The Stygian shuffled closer until he was inside the coach, then he glared at the chief, all traces of good humour gone. “Why should I save you?”

The merchant tried to make himself smaller. “I will pay you for the troubles,” he said, hesitating between the words.

“You will?”

He jumped, eager to grab at the chance of freedom. “Yes, yes!”

“Is this your first time?”

The merchant blinked. “What?”

Stop screaming, cur. “Your first time getting robbed?”

The merchant nodded. “Oh, y-yes, sir.”

Sulayman gave a ponderous nod, inching back out of the wagon. “Know, man, that greed has no place in my mind, not right now, not ever, I hope. And what you can give, I can take far more easily, and thrice the amount too.” He stared at the chief, who was stunned into silence. “Besides, weren't you just robbed?”

The merchant tried to answer, and so did his compatriots, huddled together inside the vehicle— the only sound there was came from the neighing horses and the steps of the Stygian as he jogged away. Sulay dashed back up the small precipice, and emerged with his gelding in tow. He mounted the beast with a jump, spurring it down to the road, on the direction the bandits had taken. As the lone scream of the chief soon died down, fading to the distant winds, he grinned once more.


The first bandit to notice him gawked for a good while before screaming— and got a knife for his trouble. It went through open mouth and got out just as quick. He went limp, vomiting out blood on the horse. The plug panicked and darted into the forest, taking the dying man with him. The ones in the distant front went unaware, too drunk on alcohol and triumph to notice the commotion behind them. Aside from a gurgle, birds, and laughing men, nothing else got to the ambiance.

Sulayman sent a hand running through the mane of his horse, bidding it to stay silent. He frowned. A single man against six. Slim chances, but I've nothing to lose and everything to gain.

The man who'd been beside the last one threw a lazy swing with his sword, attempting to surprise him. He let it curve across him, cutting a thin slash across his shoulder, and threw his hammer down on the bandit's retreating arm. The man let out a yelp, lips bending into a grimace. The Stygian wasted no moment, bashing his forehead in with the blunt end of his maul. The sound, of bone cracking and brain spilling, attracted a big man with an pock-marked face, the last on the rear. He jumped with spear in hand, snarling. Sulay forced himself to face the weapon, letting the iron scrape past his armour. He looped back his arm and then, with a grunt, brought it crashing down on his head.

Blood, brain, and bits of the cranium flew everywhere.

By the time the goon's pulp hit the ground, the others were already nearby. The tiniest of them charged at him with a scream, spear pointed ahead. The pick of Sulayman's hammer tore into the man, shearing off his nose. He fell off his horse, hollering as he dashed his skull against the piss-poor road. Should've paid your taxes, cur.

“Ha!” Sulay cackled. Gripping the sable handle of his hammer, the other hand on the pommel, he approached the last remaining man. A moment of indecision later and the highwayman decided to run, the largest sack of loot stowed away on his mare. A knife to the back fixed his cowardice, the force and shock shoving him to the ground. Sulayman got off from his gelding, reached down to the man, and tore the dagger from his back. The man let out a groan, his last breath— the desperate life in his eyes faded, replaced by still motion.

Sulayman mounted the gelding again, having cleaned his weapons and nabbed their plunder, and made haste for Calun.

 

[Elephantom]

Nightly Work
III​

The night was glorious in its death throes, as the morning star dared to peek over the horizon, casting a tangerine gloom upon the haze. The spiked roofs of the Lorenzo Family's estate stood out from the rest of the houses lining the roads, blackened in the fashion of the old Tharinae. A slot in the east section carried a balcony, buttressed with columns beside the main entrance, which overlooked the ruins of Fort Blueside on the neighbouring district. Blueside's castle of old, one of the more important bastions of the historical resistance of Tharin against the Egean conquerors, had towers greater than any of the pitiful attempts by the surrounding residents.

“Why are you here, friend?” asked Lorenzo, concern audible in his thin, weak voice.

Rostav looked askance at the shorter man, half a head shorter than him, dressed in the whites of noble station which fitted him poorly, too long for his short legs— the coat was good, but the ends were frayed and ruined by recent grime. He wasn't a vain man, unlike his own shallow siblings, and that was one of the reasons he took the younger man under his wings. “A sad affair,” sneered Rostav. “I loathe my father, that tyrant, and I worry for this city. I worry that his pitiful deal with the devil won't last him long. ‘Father,’ I say, ‘Beg you, let another man have his turn!’ As is normal! But he's already senile, obsessed with his political career, no bearing on the consequences of his actions.”

-​

Mateo de Lorenzo, during his earlier years, had departed for the Egean states from his homeland, Mare. He stayed in the capital for a decade to attend to his studies, eventually obtaining three certificates of graduation on rhetoric and moral philosophy— though he argued that law was his speciality. He went to Calun to stay with his uncle, who lived down near Libre Ave. Joan de Lorenzo was known for the cotton plantations he owned on the grounds beyond Calun, on the Sea of Grass, next to the unguarded segment of the Kalt.

Rostav had met him during a visit to Joan's estate to pass a letter on behalf of the printing press where he worked— the guardian of the Lorenzo Family, the patriarch, had commissioned advertisement for his farms, those plants outside the city.

Rostav was sitting in the parlor room when he Mateo, heaving with a stack of books on his arm, shouldering their way in. They both recognized each other at once, though they were little more than acquaintances. Still, they talked for a while and caught up with old times— the youngest of the Lorenzo, as Joan's wife was barren and had no children, had studied with Rostav until the day he opted for an early resignation to pursue personal affairs— before repeated visits afterwards forged a loose bond.

-​

Rostav gestured at the sprawl which unfolded before their rooftop view. “This city's seen better times, and men like us, we know those nooks and crannies of ages past best. The nobles exist for nothing, sapping money from the citizens, like vampires from folklore! Even they know it!

“Yet,” Rostav continued as his voice dropped to a harsh but quiet timbre, “my father supports them, their foolish ideals, their pursuit of wine, empty banter, and peasant women to chase and rape!”

His friend shook his head, laughing. “Rostav, friend, I always thought you hadn't the mind for this sort of worldly nonsense!”

Rostav glared at him, brows furrowing, veins bulging, the bifocals he wore threatening to fall from his tremors. “You've changed, friend!” he roared. “ ‘You are what you eat,’ they say, and never would I have imagined it would come to practice. My father, you know him, the mayor, he's a manic fool unfit for rule. Unfit for anything. An old bastard the empress just decided to reward, for no reason. He ain't got his head right, I will tell you that . . .”

Lorenzo stopped laughing. He pursed his lips. “You're not in the right state of mind, my friend, so allow me to calm you.”

The hand Rostav sent flying hit Mateo on the cheeks, knuckles shovelling deep into cheeks. The shock of it sent him off balance and to the ground. Rostav walked up to his crumpled body, lifted him by the collar of his shirt. “Don't overstep your limits, fool,” he said, surprised at his tone. A calm voice, eerie, soft, and never a good sign.

“I w-won't!” Lorenzo stammered. He gasped when Rostav released his iron grip.

He shook his head, spat at the ground, and rubbed his forehead. Fuck. The city lights, the portrait of your picturesque starry night, were cast back by a cracked mirror plate resting against the veranda's banister. It caught his eyes, and he gazed at it— at the reflection who stared back. The eldest son of the Guthlac family looked a mess, long hair unkempt and bound into a haphazard ponytail, draped in a heavy leather coat for protection against the winds. A pair of optics, beneath locks of golden hair which left only his face visible, hid his fierce grey eyes. A tall hat shrouded the top half of his features, a mask his bottom, from nose to the bottom of his neck, crumpled and loose.

Rostav blinked and frowned. He bit his lips. Damn it. Damn it all! He turned back, watching as Lorenzo gathered himself and brushed the dirt off from his coat. He limped towards him, jabbed a finger into his shiny white jacket.

“Lorenzo, know this, that I will have the old bastard's head, and I need no drive to force me. My anger, I tell you, my passion will be enough, and damn anyone who tries to stop me,” he said, jabbing him again. “I'll undermine him, kill him if I have to, and get those kids out from his shade. There ain't no fucking life for them there. I swear that, and you shall bear witness to it!”

Lorenzo gave a steady nod.

“Witness, witness!”

“I bear witness to thine declaration!” Lorenzo squeaked.

Rostav exhaled, brushed invisible dust from his coat. “Good, very good.”


Piracus observed the pharmacist— world-weary eyes over drooping features, round yet masculine, with a dominant nose and heavy frame. His clothes were clean enough, for a yeoman, and he looked like he loved tidying his place. There was a notable feature, contrasting against his tough build, and that was swollen breasts. Piracus checked again, blinked. Excess fat or is he of the third kind? He shook his head. Whoever was he to decide?

“Good, very good,” he said with a nod, shoving a hand into his coat and coming out with a purse. He lifted it up to his chin, opened the lid, counted thirty silver coins, and arranged them on the counter in three stacks.

Then he smiled, the most conversational he could muster. “Upfront payment, man? That's a honest principle, a fine principle that isn't followed a lot these days,” he said, with a laugh. “Corrupt doctors by the ton out there these days.”

“Apothecary, sir. He's a a pharmacist, most like,” Lance interjected.

Piracus glanced at the mercenary, his grin faltering. “Don't tell me that actually matters, Lance.”

Lance folded his arms. “Well, as you say, it doesn't,” he murmured.

Piracus clapped his hands. “And that's a statement I can agree with you.” He revolved around and faced the pharmacist. “I believe we two can come to an agreement, a settlement, you see. I give you something over the counter, you give me something over the counter. Trade for trade, good for good, no pro bono service. That is, if you could get someone can vouch for you. A juror, mediator, third person, and we just have one here. Can you vouch for this man, Lance?”

Lance scratched his head, confused. He hadn't been paying attention much. “Yes?”

Piracus nodded, eyeing the pharmacist. “Do you know, my good man, that there's a sect of religious doctors in the Khanda mountains in the east, all surgeons and pundits of wisdom, who devote their entire lives to the wisdom of healing? I heard they grow the ingredients for their own medicine! They'd be surprised to see you, a man of their position and of the pharmaceutical kin, in such lowly station!”

Lance cleared his throat. “Sir.”

“Of course, how could I forget? I tend to ramble on, and I never stop,” he lied, voice wet with feigned excitement, and pushed the money to the pharmacist's side of the table. “Here's the payment for the medicine, which I trust will work to the fullest extent. And that little extra. Consider, my good man, consider!”

 

[Elephantom]

Arraye clicked his tongue. The councilmen were getting unruly and anxious, driven by the poor economy of the city and the political unrest, and his time in the city hall arguing with them had only worsened his temper. His hands were tied, but they had no way of knowing that. On one side, he was being accosted by this crumbling city, and on the other, he had to appease the conceited politicians who believed they had a say on matters. Arraye Guthlac never enjoyed the masked emotions and intents of the politicians, their grotesque simplification of matters. They were purely meant to appeal to populist sensibilities, and not what was practical or required. Arraye preferred the directness, discipline and self-authority of an honest soldier's life; yet he was also a man of necessity. He was not accustomed to whining or complaining, and whatever required of him, he did it.

The previous day, he had written to councilman Francis de Castillo of his plight, saying, ‘ . . . I excel at following orders than making them out of my own autonomy. In that manner, I have found myself adapting to the needs and command of the Empress and her Imperial Party. As they have done for me, I do for them, and therein lies my loyalty. I have little love for money or the greed which drives mankind to rely on such elements, and for the men who are occupied by such inclinations, I reserve nothing but spite and disgust.’

But, contrary to his own words, like all men, Arraye was not immune to concerns for himself; he had, after all, first accepted this significant promotion— from a military grunt, as his humility led him to believe, to a major politician— and all the accompanying circumstances for the good of his children. Now, that he had the monies and security for his sons and daughters, he could've retired from the job and the party. He did not, though he had entertained that thought a couple of times, especially in his letters to his friends— he never revealed his personal anxiety to children or family, preferring to keep occupational worry confined to his occupation. From the start, he had been entirely reluctant about indulging in politics, but his reservations couldn't help as he entrenched himself too deep into this game. It was his characteristic of him to invest his fullest in any project, and which earned him his reputation in the military, but he lacked the charm and passion of popular senators like Sulla Gavius Maximilius or Sotas. Arraye's harsh, stoic mannerisms, his pragmatic approach to politics, and his draconian attitude toward flatterers ensured that he had more enemies than friends, discounting the greater people and those with no influence.

To lose his position now would mean certain death— indeed, his principles had deviated to include his own self into the bigger picture, however selfish it was, and he well knew of it— or worse, poverty and obscurity.

Arraye mumbled a curse under his breath, shaking his head as he gave his cane and coat to the nearest servant, and then made his way to his office. His steps created a steady rhythm on the stairs. Click, clack. Click, clack. A rousing effort at diversion on his part, but it failed to amuse him, as he was pricked by a nagging concern.

Hieronymus, he thought. Where is that boy?

The Guthlac manor was located near the central downtown boulevard around Fort Blueside, noticeable in that it was one of the largest buildings in the province; an alabaster white mansion, fielded on the left by botanical gardens and a few greenhouses, and on the right by sheds and the servant housings, fronted by a well-maintained stone pathway and iron fences. Initially, the place had simply been a plot. He had bought it from his former place at the capital, during his tenure under the Empress's service. The land was cheap, came in an easy bargain, and there was promise in the city. Then, as he gained a larger hearth of wealth and the Empire's favour, he invested in a building scheme, and which he improved as time went by, elevating it to its current stature.

This plot was located on the lower side of the New City, bridged to the Sleeping Road and Gem Ave, shadowed by the other higher provinces. The view of the city from there was rather unpleasant. The smell of dung was also present sometimes, when the hot winds gained altitude and flowed from the lower city to the higher buildings. Arraye wasn't bothered by them, having spent many a night awake and in the constant presence of traveller's wear and grime when he was a soldier— he had chosen the place for its strategic value, as he had access to both the Old City and the New City, and did not deign to confide in someone of intent. This created problems, as many of the more superficial people shunned and criticized his choices, while the greater yeomanry loved his humility. Still, he had no need for the latter's approval, as his career hinged on being useful, but he could not bring himself to flatter those noblemen.

Panting, Arraye reached the top of the stairs. The mansion was big, no jest to it, and something of his younger pride he regretted having. He called out to Hieronymus again, and in response, received the echoes of his own cries: the corridors were empty, and while there was the possibility that Hieronymus was hiding within one of the many rooms in the manor, pretending to be outside, Arraye chose to indulge the boy's honour and adulthood. Most likely, he really was outside. Still, it did nothing to lift his mood.

He grumbled another curse and shuffled down to his office, around the east wing of the mansion, with a balcony overlooking the Old City. The observatory was austere, somewhat bereft of furniture and worldly embellishments. The few there was happened to be spartan in design— a window framed and covered with lattice panes, a brass bell to call the servants, a bookcase next to the veranda, and a locker to store sensitive documents— with the exception of a cabinet in the corner which flaunted his medals and other personal effects, and his oaken, exquisitely carved table. The latter was presented to him as a gift by Saturn Aemilius.

The table was sparsely populated, save for a stack of papers and all the letters received on that day which held his name. There was also a writing case, storing his pens, papers and ink. Arraye stared for a moment, sighed, before sitting down to check the letters.


Arraye exhaled, cradling his high forehead in his. He wasn't going to let his emotions get the better of him. He cleared his throat and took in the view of the stranger beside him, though he did not address him, not yet. “This is our man, son?” he said, scrutinizing the dark-skinned musician. He began to have second thoughts about the arrangement, about the performance. With the current political turmoil gripping the city, the Old Kingdom-centric story in an otherwise professional party might imply that Arraye had radical interests, similar to the Crests and the Freemen rogues.

Along with his affirmation of his faith and his stance, he had also written about his indecision and unease in that letter of his to sir Castillo, stating, ‘I ask, my friend, what holds the most value: the solidarity of one's own or those who have adopted you? It bothers me, and you may ask why I even attempt to compromise my loyalty to the Empress, or even think about it. Believe me, it is not to flaunt my own power, or indulgence of any sort, but to show an earthiness. How can I explain it? I believe my present course of actions might cool the beginnings of this racial insurgency, and which, as my studies say, have given birth to this Union trouble. Pray, give me advice. I have no certainty.’

This moment of vulnerability Arraye had shown was, in fact, no vulnerability at all, but rather a statement so he could justify his own actions to himself. Besides, he knew Castillo's letter would arrive late, him being a slow writer, and the party would've long ended by then. Thus, he prepared himself, routing his doubts and putting his head together, and as more time passed, the more his decision grew resolute and concrete. Yet, in a corner of his mind, there was still a minute drop of fluctuating fear.

Arraye coughed, clearing the phlegm in his throat. “Are you sure this is a reliable man, son? I cannot afford any flaws in this performance, you understand me, as my reputation has been waning for a while. This party is my remedy for that ailment. I could've arranged for some of Castillo's personal musicians,” this was a bold lie, “and thus attain the certainty I'm looking for, but I would rather trust you, and let you prove your competence. So, son, are you sure of this man's finesse?” he said, shifting his eyes from the musician to his son, with lips pursed.

( Historical Storyteller , 0stinato )

 

[0stinato]

It certainly was an awkward fellow who had come into the shop this day. Awkward in the sense that he did not seem to know how to deal with himself, the other man did not seem to want to deal with him, and Nought definitely did not want to deal with him in any capacity. Blabbering away about upfront payment - who was he do to that? Of course upfront payment, for an upfront product! The only pre-paid work he did was for Wilhelm. That had to be pre-paid. Imagine the fool died, nothing would suffer more than Nought's cash flow. After all, a hormone couldn't be manufactured for nothing. And, considering Nought's... liberties in... improving the treatment, expense was always going up. All those ferret corpses had to come from somewhere.

Nought's eyes shifted from the two men to the three stacks of coins as they spoke together. So. The customer had included an extra coin. Perhaps an accident - but an accident would suggest he was careless with precious silver because he could afford to be. Not like Analise. She was careless because she lived in a fantasy where she got all the money in the world. Spend, spend, spend, that was it with Analise. Was it the same with this man? And if his inclusion was no accident then...

He looked back up as the customer began speaking again. Detestable habit people had. They spoke too much.

The worst part was when people didn't speak sense.

"Why are you telling me how buying and selling works?" Nought's voice was hollow with a heavy disbelief. "Come to an agreement? This isn't a trade deal of epic proportions, this is one gibbon buying medicine from another gibbon, to cure his little ailment. Why do you feel the tell me what is going on? Twenty-nine silver for this, which will work as long as you take it as instructed. That's all there should be to this conversation. I don't want your goods. I don't want your mountains. And I don't want your damn charity."

Nought separated one of the silver coins from the three piles and place it on the customer's side of the counter. An extra silver piece is wonderful to find out in the wild, randomly between street cobbles, but if it comes from a person... Nought could already feel the strings of paranoia being strummed deep inside his brain. But, overlaying that sound was a louder part of his being that sneered and sniped at the idea of the mountain-dwellers. Probably a kind, meek people, healing people and giving out free Gods-Bless-Yous or partaking in ritualistic protection charms, dressed in ceremonially dark robes that acted as dust magnets, keeping their heads down and faces hidden for fear of blasphemy, devoting their lives to good practice for the good of their souls so that one day they might sit one thousand days in an upright coffin to become a healthy human mummification of a saint, and from then on be praised by their fellow monks, revered by the sickly normal kin of the land and hailed in staves of cathedral-songs as Another One Who Reached Paradise, before put up in a glass case in some corridor they used to walk through, set to be displayed to remind the Not-Yet-Ascended monks of their futures should they keep doing their good deeds and whitening their souls with the gratitude of the men and women they cured over the hours and days of wandering the materialistic plane.

"Take your cure with my best wishes," Nought said, taking the twenty-nine silver and placing it within the box beneath the counter, which he re-locked. He sat up again, pushed the remaining coin further towards the customer. "And take your extra coin."

He stood up, keeping his eyes locked on the two men as he did so, and swept through the curtain that separated the shop front from the little living-space-turned-workshop beyond.

Elephantom


Hiero's spine became more and more bent forwards as his father expressed doubt about his ability to pick out a good man for the job. It was as if he was being pushed down by a giant... and that giant's name was Tediousness.

"Father you..." Hiero forced his back to straighten, and he tucked his hands behind his back - he had been triumphant in his expedition to discover an actor, after all, "you sent me out to find a player, the question of music was never involved in my search. And I can tell you, he knows the 24 Kings very well, he performed it out with a troupe, in his travelling days. So, I stuck to the brief you gave me: find a player. I have done as you asked. One actor, right here, all for us. But, if you want to hire Castillo's personal musicians, do so. Just, do not do it out of the remaining pittance I have as what you mockingly called a budget. There is not enough. But, if you would hire them yourself, I'll welcome them in."

"I am a good musician though, sirrah," Bonvillian had his hand half-raised. "I can play anything from a reel to a hymn. Accelerando, ritardando. Brothers--"

"I would hire them myself, Father, but, as I said, budgetary troubles," Hiero cut Bonvillian off again, for fear he would break into poetry, song or some other verbal cacophony. "In fact, so badly have you cut my budget, that it will be to both of our discredit. I cannot at all afford to have invitations done now. It is either food and entertainment - as you requested - or food and invitations. Even wine will have to be sourced from elsewhere, as I can only afford awful cheap wine now. But you know what a party seems when you don't send out nice invitations? It seems unprepared, slapdash--"

"Haberdashery," said Bonvillian.

"Hab... no? It seems... yes, unplanned. Unprofessional. You with your thrift will see this party be mediocre at best. I have done my very utmost to bring in an actor - and a musician - on your wish, and to provide food that may capture our guests' attentions for just enough time that they remember this, but invitations are impossible. So, while I claim this party as my own, it is you who has crippled it. Without Mr. Jan Bonvillian, it would be crippled even further than you could imagine. So, I recommend you think twice before questioning my intentions."

"Also, do hire those musicians," Bonvillian said, tossing his panpipes in the air and catching them again. "Music, music, we need music, not your war!"

Historical Storyteller