Lightning Strikes Wolf
"Our charming readers might be appalled to find that our bad, golden boy of the Mezem had been bereaved. Not to give anything away, or name any names but we have it from the best sources that the wunderkind Yeola-e who cut his own throat to keep from being matched against the Durakis, was one of their elite and the closest friend the raven-haired prodigy had. Our mystic mountain boys wielding wild steel from deep undermountain forges were closer than close!
Mannas the Wolf, apparently cut his own throat to keep from being matched against the brother of his heart, the aforementioned raven haired warrior."
Intharas Terren looked up from the page in front of him and shook his head no. “Silasas, go write something else for the Tale. I have a main piece on this already.” He pushed it back across his desk to the writer who tore it in half and then quarters and then eighths before folding it up to drop into Intharas’s waste basket.
Silasas sighed. "Sure, boss. Was it..."
"Ah." Of course. The Aitzas writer would get published first.
"Otherwise, good work. Nothing for anyone to get upset about."
Neither one looked out of Intharas’s office over to the book editor’s alcove. Fridas sat, working diligently, head bent over his work.
His left hand had a kerchief draped over it because there were no gloves made to fit over finger splints without pain. One finger, perhaps, but not two.
The Mahid had pulled him over his own desk, pinned him there by the throat as the Senior had repeated the Imperator’s displeasure over a book he had approved, and broken the first finger. His shocked scream had even cut through the thunder of the press drawing every eye. They’d then raised him up, dispassionately beaten him, breaking his nose, painting the lesson in bright blood. They’d broken the second finger just before leaving. Every eye in the press had been locked on the bloody little play and knew exactly why it had happened even before the Mahid had changed their soiled gloves, flinging them into the waste bin at his desk, walking out as mechanically as they’d walked in.
Even Intharas never knew what might set off the Marble Palace and create another such scene. Everyone knew that Fridas was just as glad the Mahid had left his thumb alone, and not injured him permanently when it could so easily have been different. Nobody breathed a word of it now. A story unprinted.
Published in the Serpent's Tale
The Divine Spark of the Sun’s Ray attended the performance of “Unique Rendition of the Flight of the Eagle” the other day and apparently added his own inimitable addition to the music.
The conductor was speechlessly thrilled and was heard to say later that the Chip of the Effulgence’s Light had, at least, impeccable rhythm. The Spark’s companion, the Director of the Mezem had a most peculiar smile upon his face as he assisted the Spark in his orchestral endeavours.
Both evidently chose to stand during the orchestra’s spirited rendition and the Heir to the Crystal Throne, obviously transported by the music, repeatedly kicked the Director in the buttocks. As we said, the Divine Spark of the Sun’s Ray is obviously a lover of the arts musical and has impeccable timing, for the startled yelps from the distinguished guest provided a charming counterpoint to every crescendo. The faithful music aficionados at the Tale hope to see the Spark contribute so successfully to similarly worthy pieces. Our sincere thanks to the Director of the Mezem, who was in lovely voice that evening.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Lightning Strikes Wolf