Анализ сайта uruvalai.com
Основное Готовность: 75%
Домен
uruvalai.com
Состояние доменного имени
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Проверяем корректность доменного имени и наличие технических проблем на уровне домена.
Домен второго уровня идеален для продвижения.
Отличный запоминающийся домен.
Ответ сервера
200 Успешный ответ
HTTP-код ответа и цепочка редиректов
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Код 200 — страница доступна. Коды 3xx — редиректы (цепочки замедляют загрузку и размывают ссылочный вес). Коды 4xx/5xx — ошибки, поисковик не сможет проиндексировать страницу.
Сервер настроен корректно.
Цепочка редиректов:
http://uruvalai.com
302 Found
https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/
200 OK
Безопасность
Сайт безопасен
Использование HTTPS и SSL-сертификат
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HTTPS — обязательный стандарт. Google и Яндекс отдают предпочтение защищённым сайтам. Отсутствие SSL или просроченный сертификат ведут к предупреждениям в браузере и снижению позиций.
На сайте работает защищенный протокол ssl и сайт открывается по https.
Ssl-сертификат действителен до 23.10.2026 22:43:55.
Включён HSTS (Strict-Transport-Security) — защита от подмены на http.
HTTP автоматически перенаправляется на HTTPS.
Поздравляем! Сайт не содержится в реестре РКН.
Кодировка
UTF-8
Кодировка символов страницы
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Стандарт — UTF-8. Неправильная кодировка вызывает нечитаемые символы и мешает поисковику корректно распознать текст страницы.
Указана кодировка на странице UTF-8.
Язык
en
Атрибут lang в HTML-теге
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Атрибут lang (<html lang="ru">) сообщает поисковикам и браузерам, на каком языке написана страница. Помогает при ранжировании в региональном поиске.
Язык документа указан явно: en.
Скорость загрузки
~0,68сек
Время отклика сервера (TTFB)
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Time To First Byte — время до получения первого байта от сервера. Норма до 200 мс. Медленный отклик ухудшает пользовательский опыт и ранжирование: Яндекс и Google учитывают скорость страниц.
Скорость загрузки сайта 0,68сек оптимальна.
Объем документа
374Кб
Размер HTML-кода страницы
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Слишком большой HTML замедляет парсинг браузером и сканирование поисковым роботом. Рекомендуется не более 200 Кб.
Объем html-документа 374Кб оптимален.
Структура html-документа корректна.
Ресурсы
Ресурсы: 17
Внешние ресурсы страницы (CSS, JS, изображения)
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Количество и тип подключённых ресурсов влияют на скорость загрузки. Большое число запросов увеличивает время рендеринга страницы.
Кол-во файлов ресурсов 17 много для одной страницы. Приемлемо до 10. Проведите оптимизацию файлов ресурсов!
Показать полный список ресурсов
| Тип | Название | Значение |
|---|---|---|
| stylesheet | text/css | /_static/??-eJxljd0KwjAMhV/ImgnDXYnP0nWxZEvTsqSMvb0VVCZenr/vwFZcyGIoBqm6wjWSKGw0RTQFrC3NC6Fjv4FhKuwNFdR2xnNQPcEBMHKOX0Ty64JGEt3oV2jVX+dvfHif0YoPy1uDVoGUp8rtmORBQoZOw5qZP3p/4e7pdhmGoe+ufdfNT3YwUWg=&cssminify=yes |
| stylesheet | text/css | /_static/??-eJx9jEEOAiEQBD/kQECjeDC+ZWEnijIwYWA3/l72op689KFTVXplCCU3zE1z6reYRYfiUwlP0VYZpwxIJE4IFRd10HOU9iFA2iuhCiI7/ROiDt9WxfETT20jCOc4YUIa2D9t5eGA91xRBMZS7ATtPkTZvCtdzNEZt7f2fHq8Afl7R7w=&cssminify=yes |
| stylesheet | text/css | /_static/??/wp-content/themes/pub/dara/style.css,/wp-content/themes/pub/dara/blocks.css?m=1783978187j&cssminify=yes |
| stylesheet | https://fonts-api.wp.com/css?family=Source+Sans+Pro%3A300%2C300italic%2C400%2C400italic%2C600%7CYrsa%3A300%2C400%2C700&subset=latin%2Clatin-ext | |
| stylesheet | text/css | /_static/??-eJx9jsEOwiAQRH9I3PZQORk/xVC6IhV2CQtp/Htp4gGj8TYvmTcZ2JKyTAWpQKwqheo8CaxYkrGPN4NUgqsnCw4Js2+C/I5HK3KAbrPcMaJAqjMsJhvYR6Q8A6otWY5f/e5Dxjmwa9FBa3X4T3LIKrA1xTN9gLoF4/OuXuJ51Ho8DXoapvUFUqxf4A==&cssminify=yes |
| stylesheet | text/css | /wp-content/mu-plugins/global-print/global-print.css?m=1465851035i&cssminify=yes |
| stylesheet | text/css | /wp-content/themes/h4/global.css?m=1420737423i&cssminify=yes |
| stylesheet | text/css | /_static/??-eJydjtsKwkAMRH/INVa89EX8FFnTUNJms0uzYX/fCir4Jj6eYeYw0ErArJW0QvJQxEdWg4lqiTi/GMwVbqwId8k4G1jjQssWzTbwsyDlwYUMMC7ZjeTTeQd/+hoPI9X1VEaOEnhdf8PTe02X7twf991h15+mB1TkXE4=&cssminify=yes |
| stylesheet | text/css | /wp-content/mu-plugins/jetpack-plugin/sun/modules/tiled-gallery/tiled-gallery/tiled-gallery.css?m=1752872378i&cssminify=yes |
| js | text/javascript | /_static/??/wp-content/js/rlt-proxy.js,/wp-content/blog-plugins/wordads-classes/js/cmp/v2/cmp-non-gdpr.js?m=1780567333j |
| js | //0.gravatar.com/js/hovercards/hovercards.min.js?ver=202634d1133547e8a1f2801609f51cef12522abe7f6647d869e9fbc974fe356a37e613 | |
| js | text/javascript | /wp-content/mu-plugins/gravatar-hovercards/wpgroho.js?m=1610363240i |
| js | text/javascript | /_static/??-eJydj8FOw0AMRH+IrWnVQi+IT0HOrhOceL2r2NvA3zegFlAPSHCc8cxYD5YaYlEndeikDKFKG1gNljInTBaioBkZjKuFLuG024x2Bz9quX2XOA3kBtTWa5mYguACTrkKOt34v+yM5BXjdNFgTeGFNULXWBKw9qzsFCzOReSq3zeZ9XbUXymvj2vrIOGM8AHjnzSKJx7QufyhYxPXIKxT6EtsFnp++zdFxLk0I/mKXY0LxnN+2j4eD7vt/v74MJ4BkvSeGA== |
| js | /wp-content/mu-plugins/jetpack-plugin/sun/_inc/build/tiled-gallery/tiled-gallery/tiled-gallery.min.js?m=1755011788i&ver=16.2-a.2 | |
| js | text/javascript | /wp-content/mu-plugins/carousel-wpcom/carousel-wpcom.js?m=1761899756i |
| js | //stats.wp.com/w.js?69 | |
| js | /wp-content/js/bilmur.min.js?i=17&m=202634 |
Серверные заголовки
Кол-во: 10
HTTP-заголовки ответа сервера
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Заголовки сервера передают браузеру и поисковику служебную информацию: кеширование, безопасность (CSP, HSTS), сжатие (gzip). Правильная настройка ускоряет загрузку и повышает защищённость.
Найдены серверные заголовки 10шт. Подробнее про серверные заголовки.
Показать полный список серверных заголовков
| Ключ | Значение |
|---|---|
| Server | nginx |
| Date | Fri, 21 Aug 2026 11:20:53 GMT |
| Vary | Accept-Encoding |
| x-hacker | Want root? Visit join.a8c.com/hacker and mention this header. |
| host-header | WordPress.com |
| Link | <https://public-api.wordpress.com/wp-json/?rest_route=/sites/uruvalai.wordpress.com>; rel="https://api.w.org/" |
| x-ac | 11.arn _dca UPDATING |
| Alt-Svc | clear |
| Strict-Transport-Security | max-age=31536000 |
| Server-Timing | a8c-cdn, dc;desc=arn, cache;desc=UPDATING;dur=3.0 |
CMS
WordPress
Система управления сайтом (движок)
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CMS — это движок, на котором работает сайт (WordPress, 1C-Bitrix, Tilda и др.). Знание CMS помогает понять возможности SEO-оптимизации и подобрать подходящие инструменты. «Не определена» — вероятно, самописный сайт или нестандартная сборка.
Сайт работает на CMS WordPress.
Веб-сервер
nginx
Программное обеспечение сервера
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Веб-сервер — это ПО, которое отдаёт страницы посетителям (nginx, Apache, IIS, LiteSpeed и др.). Определяется по серверным заголовкам ответа (Server, X-Powered-By и т.п.). «Не определён» — сервер намеренно скрывает эти заголовки, это нормальная практика безопасности.
Сайт работает на веб-сервере nginx.
Мета-теги Готовность: 43%
Title
Phoenix & Rook Tales – A home for the strange, fantastic, and terrifying.
Заголовок страницы в браузере и поисковой выдаче
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Title — главный SEO-заголовок страницы. Влияет на CTR в поиске и ранжирование. Оптимальная длина: 50–70 символов. Ключевые слова — ближе к началу.
Необходимо уменьшить число символов в title (текущее значение: 83, оптимально: от 40 до 45)
Дублей словоформ в title не найдено.
Description
A home for the strange, fantastic, and terrifying.
Описание страницы в поисковой выдаче (сниппет)
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Meta Description — текст под заголовком в выдаче. Напрямую на позиции не влияет, но влияет на CTR. Оптимальная длина: 120–160 символов.
Необходимо увеличить число символов в description (текущее значение мало: 50, минимум: 80, оптимально: от 120 до 130)
Keywords
Список ключевых слов страницы (устаревший тег)
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Meta Keywords не учитывается Яндексом и Google для ранжирования с 2009–2012 годов. Заполнение не обязательно, но не вредит. Конкурент может использовать содержимое для анализа.
Установите мета-тег keywords!
Канонический Url
Указывает поисковику основную версию страницы
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Canonical (rel=canonical) предотвращает проблему дублей страниц. Должен точно совпадать с URL проверяемой страницы. Неправильный canonical может передать ссылочный вес на другую страницу.
Рекомендуем прописать канонический Url.
Robots
Есть ошибки
Директивы для поисковых роботов на уровне страницы
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Meta Robots управляет индексацией конкретной страницы: index/noindex — индексировать ли, follow/nofollow — следовать ли по ссылкам. Noindex полностью исключает страницу из поиска.
Meta-тег robots указан, но в нем содержится неизвестное значение...
Адаптивность
width=device-width, initial-scale=1
Настройка масштабирования на мобильных устройствах
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Тег viewport (<meta name="viewport">) сообщает браузеру, как масштабировать страницу на мобильных. Стандарт: width=device-width, initial-scale=1. Отсутствие — признак отсутствия мобильной версии.
Meta-тег viewport со значением-константой width=device-width задаёт ширину страницы в соответствии с размером экрана.
Meta-тег viewport со значением initial-scale=1.0 определяет масштаб 1:1, т.е. «не масштабировать».
Разметка OpenGraph
Кол-во: 10
Мета-теги для красивых превью в соцсетях
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OpenGraph (og:title, og:description, og:image) управляет тем, как страница выглядит при репосте в социальных сетях и мессенджерах. Отсутствие OG-тегов — невзрачный превью при шеринге.
Разметка OpenGraph задана. Страница оптимизирована под социальные сети.
Показать полный список og мета-тегов
| Тип | Значение |
|---|---|
| og:type | website |
| og:title | Phoenix & Rook Tales |
| og:description | A home for the strange, fantastic, and terrifying. |
| og:url | https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/ |
| og:site_name | Phoenix & Rook Tales |
| og:image | https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-phoenixandrook-1.jpeg?w=200 |
| og:image:width | 200 |
| og:image:height | 200 |
| og:image:alt | |
| og:locale | en_US |
Все мета-теги
Кол-во: 20
Полный список мета-тегов страницы
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Таблица всех meta-тегов, включая нестандартные. Позволяет найти опечатки, дубли и лишние теги.
Найдены мета-теги 20шт. Мета-теги не видимы для человека и предназначены для обмена информацией между веб-страницей и поисковыми системами, браузерами и другими веб-службами. С ними роботы 🤖 и устройства ведут себя более ожидаемо.
Показать полный список мета-тегов
| Тип | Название | Значение |
|---|---|---|
| name | viewport | width=device-width, initial-scale=1 |
| name | robots | max-image-preview:large |
| name | generator | WordPress.com |
| name | twitter:creator | @uruvalai |
| name | twitter:site | @uruvalai |
| name | theme-color | #212121 |
| name | description | A home for the strange, fantastic, and terrifying. |
| name | msapplication-TileImage | https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-phoenixandrook-1.jpeg?w=270 |
| property | og:type | website |
| property | og:title | Phoenix & Rook Tales |
| property | og:description | A home for the strange, fantastic, and terrifying. |
| property | og:url | https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/ |
| property | og:site_name | Phoenix & Rook Tales |
| property | og:image | https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-phoenixandrook-1.jpeg?w=200 |
| property | og:image:width | 200 |
| property | og:image:height | 200 |
| property | og:image:alt | |
| property | og:locale | en_US |
| property | fb:app_id | 249643311490 |
| property | bilmur:data |
Оптимизация Готовность: 82%
Структура
Ошибок нет
Семантические HTML-элементы страницы
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Проверяет наличие основных структурных элементов: nav, header, footer, main. Корректная семантическая структура помогает поисковику понять архитектуру страницы.
Структура документа корректна (теги <html> и <body> присутствуют в одном экземпляре).
Контент
Ошибок нет
Объём и качество текстового содержимого
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Анализирует объём полезного текста на странице. Слишком мало — страница может считаться малополезной. Слишком много — ухудшается читаемость и восприятие.
Слова из title 11 встречаются в тексте достаточно.
Абзацев с текстом 689 достаточно.
Среднее число слов в абзаце 34 достаточно.
Кол-во знаков контента 134747 на странице оптимально.
Кол-во слов 23943 на странице оптимально.
Заголовки
Ошибок нет
Иерархия заголовков H1–H6
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H1 должен быть один и содержать ключевой запрос. H2–H6 описывают подразделы. Пропуск уровней (H1 → H3) и несколько H1 — типичные ошибки, снижающие понятность страницы для поисковика.
На странице присутствуют заголовки <h1> 1. Это прекрасно.
На странице присутствуют заголовки <h2> 11. Это хорошо.
На странице присутствуют заголовки <h3> 4.
Тошнота
6,48
Насколько одно слово доминирует в тексте
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Классическая тошнота = √(частота самого повторяющегося слова). Норма до 7–8: текст воспринимается естественно. Выше — поисковик может счесть страницу переспамленной.
Тошнота превышает норму 5. Измените текст страницы!
Академич. тошнота
19,69%
Насколько текст перенасыщен ключевыми словами
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Академическая тошнота = (частота слова / общее количество слов) × 100%. Показывает долю конкретного слова в тексте. Норма 5–15%.
Академическая тошнота превышает норму 5-15%. Измените текст страницы!
Семантическое ядро
20
Наиболее часто встречающиеся слова на странице
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Топ слов по частоте использования. Показывает, какие слова доминируют в тексте с точки зрения поисковика.
Контент страницы содержит осмысленный текст и слова.
Показать список слов
| Слово | Кол-во | Частота |
|---|---|---|
| through | 42 | 0,18% |
| though | 37 | 0,15% |
| there’s | 37 | 0,15% |
| before | 36 | 0,15% |
| doesn’t | 32 | 0,13% |
| something | 28 | 0,12% |
| jarrik | 27 | 0,11% |
| behind | 26 | 0,11% |
| jiselmo | 26 | 0,11% |
| little | 25 | 0,10% |
| enough | 25 | 0,10% |
| people | 24 | 0,10% |
| teller | 23 | 0,10% |
| fortunes | 23 | 0,10% |
| around | 21 | 0,09% |
| turned | 21 | 0,09% |
| moment | 19 | 0,08% |
| caravan | 19 | 0,08% |
| visitor | 18 | 0,08% |
| stories | 17 | 0,07% |
Индексация Готовность: 5%
Индексирование
Есть ошибки
Разрешено ли индексирование страницы
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Проверяет, не закрыта ли страница от индексации через robots.txt, meta robots или X-Robots-Tag. Страница, закрытая от индексации, не появится в поисковой выдаче.
Анкоров на странице 278 слишком много. Проведите ревизию и оптимизацию ссылок сайта.
Robots.txt
Найден корректный robots.txt
Файл управления сканированием сайта роботами
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Robots.txt указывает поисковым роботам, какие страницы сканировать, а какие — нет. Ошибки в файле могут случайно закрыть важные разделы от индексации.
Robots.txt настроен корректно. Размер файла: 383302 байт. Загружен за: 1сек.
Проверяемая страница не запрещена в robots.txt.
Robots.txt доступен по постоянному адресу
Цепочка редиректов для файла robots.txt:
http://uruvalai.com/robots.txt
302 Found
https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/
200 OK
Показать содержимое robots.txt
<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1">
<link rel="profile" href="http://gmpg.org/xfn/11">
<title>Phoenix & Rook Tales – A home for the strange, fantastic, and terrifying.</title>
<script type="text/javascript">
WebFontConfig = {"google":{"families":["Cinzel:r:latin,latin-ext","Lora:r,i,b,bi:latin,latin-ext"]},"api_url":"https:\/\/fonts-api.wp.com\/css"};
(function() {
var wf = document.createElement('script');
wf.src = '/wp-content/plugins/custom-fonts/js/webfont.js';
wf.type = 'text/javascript';
wf.async = 'true';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0];
s.parentNode.insertBefore(wf, s);
})();
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<span class="posted-on"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2025/02/04/a-rare-job-well-done/" rel="bookmark"><time class="entry-date published" datetime="2025-02-04T19:51:01-05:00">February 4, 2025</time><time class="updated" datetime="2025-02-14T21:54:02-05:00">February 14, 2025</time></a></span><span class="byline"> <span class="author vcard"><a class="url fn n" href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/author/estridemail/">Phoenix & Rook</a></span></span> </div><!-- .entry-meta -->
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<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“<em>Can you not see that the task is your task – yours to dream, yours to resolve, yours to execute?</em>” ― <strong>Upton Sinclair</strong></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">A garish “roar” sounds out like the mating call of a wild boar. It’s the signature opening to a show for the ages. Massive block letters, reminiscent of a Comic Sans Tarzan, burst onto the screen: PRIMAL EATS. It smooshes down on a cartoon caribou, blood splattering with eyes popping out cartoonishly out of the sockets. The gory scene fades away slowly, giving way to the milky-whites of a man’s eyes, a scraggly copper beard, and the looming bulk of his mountainous upper body.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“WHAT’S UP, PRIMATES? I have something to show you today…. something mighty special.” He smirks softly, as if sharing a truly choice cut.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The camera struggles to pan back past the star’s raw, oiled deltoids, lined with striations like a marbled flank of steak. The view reveals a sausage cooked in the midday sun, lain upon the asphalt as an offering to god. The meat’s casing gleams with the morning light, with a soft sizzlin’ steam coming up off the surface. The man flips it over with a stainless steel spatula.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Here we have CK Natural’s top of the line, primates… A sausage that’ll make a porn star blush. It’s the whole hog, baby,” he assures with a white-enameled grin, and the slow conspirator’s nod.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“We’re talkin’ beastly, behemoth wild boars roaming the forests and fjords from Norway to Ireland… Ripped and virile, caught at peak in mating season,” he tightens his fist before the camera, and continues, “then fed on algae collected from the Arctic, green and clean just like our ancestors ate. Untouched, unspoiled algae from beneath the permafrost. You don’t get more primal than that, folks. And…” He winks. “It’s made to keep RAW, nice and pink in the middle! Ultra low-temp process so all of your amino acids, your Vitamin C, are still intact, not destroyed by heat or any GMO-whatnots.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The roar echoes once more, like a poorly executed stinger from a soundboard. </p>
<div class="wp-block-media-text is-stacked-on-mobile"><figure class="wp-block-media-text__media"><img data-attachment-id="648" data-permalink="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2025/02/04/a-rare-job-well-done/ck-naturals-logo-text-3/" data-orig-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/ck-naturals-logo-text-2.jpg" data-orig-size="1024,1024" data-comments-opened="1" data-image-meta="{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"1"}" data-image-title="CK Naturals Logo Text" data-image-description="" data-image-caption="" data-large-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/ck-naturals-logo-text-2.jpg?w=1024" width="825" height="825" src="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/ck-naturals-logo-text-2.jpg?w=825" alt="" class="wp-image-648 size-full" srcset="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/ck-naturals-logo-text-2.jpg?w=825 825w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/ck-naturals-logo-text-2.jpg?w=150 150w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/ck-naturals-logo-text-2.jpg?w=300 300w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/ck-naturals-logo-text-2.jpg?w=768 768w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/ck-naturals-logo-text-2.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 825px) 100vw, 825px" /></figure><div class="wp-block-media-text__content">
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Get a look at that as it sizzles, practically begging to be eaten… GET AT IT NOW, PRIMATES! I’m partnering with CK Naturals to get their Premium Pork Box out there into your grubby little hands. Just use the special code, PRIME-8, and get 20% off on your FIRST BOX!”</p>
</div></div>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">A few minutes ensue of a very guttural, ravenous ‘mukbang’ as Prime Nate does unspeakable things to that road-cooked sausage, as the centerpiece of a smorgasbord of meats and minimal green garnishes on an expansive, viking-Valhalla-esque long table. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Well that’s it folks, SMASH THAT LIKE N’ SUBSCRIBE, and REMEMBER-” </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The screen winks black. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">—</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Why do I watch this stuff?” </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">An unshaven man, likely in his early twenties, slides out of bed. He tosses his tablet to the side like a discarded lover, only to be interrupted by a snuffly French Bulldog that crawls onto his chest. It soon finds the wiry beard covering Andy’s chin and begins lapping, licking, shnorfeling him awake. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Ah, Pascal! Pascal, stop,” he laughs, shooing the dog aside with a flap of his hand. The dog, ever the faithful creature, hops off the bed and trots over to its bowl. Before even rising, Andy reaches for a bag of premium canine chow on reflex and empties the bacon-and-egg flavored kibble into the waiting receptacle. Pascal then eats his breakfast, promptly forgetting his master as his little stub-tail wiggles.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">It’s time for Andy Newman to get ready for work. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">His young bones creak from lack of use. He rises from bed, stretches his thin torso, and goes about his morning routine. First, he brushes his teeth, then ruins it with the worst, most bitter coffee in the world. Lastly, he sheds his plaid linen pajamas for the flat cotton-polyester of a striped corporate button-up. Once he’s shrouded his disheveled form in the pretenses of his early career, he’s ready to head out the door. A refurbished old Pinto awaits him in the alleyway outside his inner-city apartment, stuffed like a sardine behind a swinging bumper and the silver crest on the front of his neighbor’s Cadillac. Forward-back, forward-back, he wiggles the old beast out of its parallel park like a hospital receptionist doing heart surgery. The Cadillac bumps, just short of a scrape, and that means Andy is in the clear.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The podcast he plays during his commute is not far from the morning stream he viewed. The talking voice is just older, louder, and has a microphone instead of a table full of slaughtered beasts. The old prize fighter has Andy chuckling as he berates some woo-woo scientist touting his latest miracle cure scraped from the inside of a fish’s pancreas (or something like that). Andy gives it half his mind as his eyes track the traffic, his hands manipulate the wheel, and he shifts his bottom to find scant comfort in the old cracked pleather of his dad’s pinto. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Bright red, white, and blue plastic banners herald the entryway to his workplace. They line the road like a church choir greeting the priest, or a king’s parade complete with criers, bugles, and all: </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“CLINT KENDALL, THE NEW AMERICAN DESTINY.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“CLINT: LOW PRICES. TAMMY: HIGH PRICES.” </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“WE’VE GOT NADS, DO YOU?”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Smaller signs with “vote yes” or “vote no” on proposal 1, 2, 3, A-B-C dot below the bigger signs like punctuation marks in a dramatic reading of “See Spot Run.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">It wins a little smile from Andy. Despite his age, a number of those slogans came off of his old Lanobo’s word processor. Tight, aggressive slogans tested the best. He ran the demographic statistics and even hosted some of the focus groups himself. Andy can even remember some of the bar graphs as they danced in the reflections of his thick-rimmed glasses. They all said one thing: up, up, UP. He was hired to be an intern. He knows, though, that the recommendation letter he gets will say “statistician, analyst,” and someday… “Campaign Manager.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy Newman knows he’s going places. For now, though, he’s running to headquarters. While he was sleeping in and watching streams, Clint Kendall himself was at one of his biggest Ohio rallies yet. His campaign bus piled with merch is still nestled in the parking lot, emptied of a king’s ransom in hats, T-shirts, and playful little plastic balls that you hang from the hitch of your pickup truck. It all speaks back to an essential populist wisdom… if your opponents try to paint you as a brutish, evil Cromagnon that bullies the weak, eats roadkill, and says dumb shit on TV, what do you do?</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“You fucking lean in,” Andy mutters under his breath, smirking like a cowboy in a Hollywood shootout.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy doesn’t get to lean in for long. The campaign doesn’t need him crouched in front of an old monitor, clacking at the keyboard, eyeballing statistics. No… the campaign needs him to cater lunch. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“HURRY THE FUCK UP, Andy!” His boss greets him as he enters the push-bar doors of the old office building. Her blond curls bounce as she berates him in a voice low enough to not carry down the hall. “CK’s on his way right now, and he gets hungry after his rallies. You know how these Ohioans are… they’re frothing at the mouth for this tripe.” </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">She doesn’t elaborate, but Andy can imagine: hours on stage, shouting and joking, berating, even doing a little dance to the outro music… Clint Kendall knows how to work a fucking crowd, and the crowd works him back. You would think it’s a joke when his crowds rave about the Deep State, scream until they turn blue, and hoist sample cups of boar semen like it’s his… but then, you just don’t *get* the Clint Kendall thing. It’s a world-stage concert, but better. You can cut loose. Be the beast that you can’t be in the boardroom or the bedroom… and best of all? Your crazy ass is *changing the fucking world.* You think boar semen is silly? You don’t know campaign statistics.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Andy? ANDY!” she snaps in front of his eyes. “Sandwiches. Food. NOW. And remember, it’s gotta be high protein.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy is in charge of campaign logistics. And so, our noble intern protects his professional button-up with a tattered “kiss the cook” apron. A noble hair net scoops in his proudly coiffed side-sweep. He doesn’t do all the cooking himself, of course. That would be a monumental task. Andy just… picks up the grocery delivery box, sorts it out into portions, slices the meat, heats the meat, lays it across sandwiches, squirts a horrid-looking dark yellow mustard onto the meat…</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy is an unpaid intern, you see. Everything he does is infinitely efficient for the campaign from a cost perspective. If they hired cooks to travel with them, they’d need not only a minimum wage but also transport, healthcare, their own lunch break… No, this task is Andy’s cross to bear. It’s all for the credit hours. It’s all for victory.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">After a half-hour’s effort, he has a simple spread of triangle bologna sandwiches prepared along a smorgasbord of charcuterie. Little gherkins, sausages, cheeses, crackers… anything that fit the grubby campaign manager’s small, manicured hands and that CK can scoop up with his hairy, liver-spotted paws. In theory. CK never actually eats the sandwiches.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The pièce de résistance is a smoothie of jackfruit, carob, açaí, spirulina, goji berry,and several scoopfuls of whey and collagen protein. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Nothing like the ‘ol milk and bone to keep a man strong…”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy wipes the sweat from his brow and brings the tray out into the dining area. That’s when he arrives: Clint Kendall himself.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He’s a man you would be stunned to meet in his prime. Even if you’ve never seen a TV in your life, you’d confuse him for a movie star, a newscaster, or a Wild West cowboy brought to life. His face is high-cheeked, with leathery skin as shiny as a wax figure. His hair is always the same half-pompadour half-coif, with a little shock of grey running up the front. He’s a vision of charisma on TV, reading the filth of every person in power, charting a vision for a New America. A fine twinkle in his eye greets his supporters, as his Kendall-blue irises fall upon each one of them in a slow, deliberate acknowledgment — even to Andy. The years have melted and mottled his skin with gray stubble and red burnishes to his hide, but sure as shit, that chin dimple says “Star.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Hey, kid. How’s it going? Good ad,” he congratulates Anne. “The ‘nads’ thing really got ‘em.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Clint digs into his coat pocket, draws out a thin stick of meat, then cowshed chews into the Slim Jim as he stares down his nose at the table.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“The heck’s this? Did we get catering from Joisey Joe’s again?” He picks up a finger sandwich, sniffs it once, twice, then drops it plainly back onto the table with a soft, wet Wunderbread-brand thud. “I keep tellin’ y’all. One hundred and thirty-five degrees, max. This processed, overcooked bologna ain’t it.” </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Leaving it for his staff, his big, silver fuzz-lined mit sweeps over and grabs up a glass of his signature smoothie. It’s what keeps him chuggin’.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Anyway. Bottom’s up.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Clint Kendall raises the green-frosted glass to his puckered lips, gingerly tilts the pink and purple smoothie back, and softly bobs his Adam’s apple up and down. It takes a solid five seconds for Clint to consider the bulbous goji, the slabs of jackfruit, and globs of clumpy protein powder… until he sputters, coughs, and curls back his upper lip in the flehmen response.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">His face turns three shades redder. Like a bull lowering his horns, he knits his caterpillar brows together and puts them forward, eyes boring a hole in the wall with the under-whites of a Kubrick stare.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“This smoothie… ain’t it. No nutrition, no branched-chain amino acids, no creatine… This protein’s like drinking a corpse, a pile of curled up maggots! Our ancestors weep at such a weak, mewling display…” His nostrils flare, showing wiry brushes of hair as if he needs all the oxygen in the room to feed his rage. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“I TELL you all, again and again…. P-A-L-E-O. Simple as.” He sighs wearily. “Who did this?” He slowly sweeps the room with his bloodshot eyes…</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">CK’s ‘hanger’ is legendary amongst the staff, born no doubt from stress, the ravenous demands of his former boxer’s body, and just plain masculine dignity. The eyes in the room all drift sideways, one by one landing upon Andy as he clutches his hairnet in a fist behind his back. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Mortified, Andy wishes to blend into the wallpaper. However, even his white button-up won’t let him blend into the sickly off-yellow and eggshell tones. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Jeff, for the love of all things Holy… how many times must I tell you?” Clint begins to pick up steam, tilting his head forward. He advances upon the intern, soon towering over him. The youngster’s side sweep barely meets Clint’s barrel chest. “Real men eat paleo, not powders. Got it?” He thrusts the jade-colored glass against Andy — no, “Jeff’s” — chest. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Then, just when it seems Clint’s anger will reach some mighty crescendo… he breathes out. Instead, he rests a mighty paw upon Andy’s shoulder and gives him a stern look, as if he wants to be proud of him, so long as Andy can show him his true potential. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Jeff. Jeff. Jeff, Jeff, Jeff…”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy doesn’t correct him.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“In politics, you can go places if you think about others. Have empathy for their needs. Working a crowd, making headlines,” his grip tightens on his shoulder, “It isn’t just about bravado. No! You need to have empathy, kiddo. Now,” he gently shoos the intern out. “Get on, now. Let this be a teaching moment. We have campaign matters to discuss.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy doesn’t ascend from his status as “extra” for very long. Some unseen hand pushes him out of the conference room, and the gymnasium-grade doors open and promptly slam shut behind him. Imperfect in their design, he can hear snatches of conversation.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Ann, straight to business, begins, “Now, about the new health craze… I think we should ride the wave. All these blog mommies touting wormwood as a cure would be great publicity.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Absolutely not, Julie,” the distant voice of Clint dismisses. “I can’t be seen with that rabble. Wormwood? Get a grip.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Oh, it’s harmless! How’s this any different from the Amazing Alkaline-Ammonia cure! Or…”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Their words trail off. Andy usually loves this kind of candid repartee. CK may be a nut, but he’s a genuine nut. He appreciates the free exchange of ideas. Despite his hyper-masculine persona, Clint doesn’t just welcome disagreement, he encourages it. Like a real pioneer, he wants to be on the bleeding edge of everything, so all ideas are fair game.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">… The exception, of course, is Andy’s big screw-up today. How could he have forgotten? Clint Kendall’s health routine is in all the ads, the YouTube videos, even his website. Andy’s own blog has regurgitated it enough times, after all, with plenty of traffic as a result. Giving CK processed food is just not the “done” thing. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Running a hand across his wiry copper-colored beard, Andy tries to comprehend how he could let down one of the greatest leaders in a national campaign. Being on the road gives him a lot of forgivenesses and privileges, but mistakes with CK’s food aren’t one of them. How could he possibly make this right?</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“I even got him those Rockie Mountain oysters last week… how could I eff up a smoothie?” He moans, resting his head in his hands. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Distraught with his failure, and scared to death of seeing Anne again (lest she make him relive it), Andy makes his way back to the kitchen. There, at least, he can meditate on his mistake. He can measure portions, review nutrition labels, and come up with a whole new menu for the next state… what is it, Arkansas? It’s home to the white-tailed deer, the bobcat, and the locals’ famous pulled-pork.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“He’d love that,” Andy mutters, as he takes a moment to tabulate the list in an app on his smartphone. “I’ll write it up now.” Maybe that will keep Anne out of his netted hair…</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The hour passes by in mere minutes. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">While scrolling through videos, hairs suddenly rise on the back of his neck. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Primal danger. He feels it snap tight in his brain like a piano wire.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He hears the rhythmic stomp of elevated-heel dress shoes, leather clacking across concrete like the hooves of a septuagenarian centaur. Andy would know that gait anywhere. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Clint Kendall.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy can’t bear to show his face. He needs to regain favor with Anne first, get her to put in a good word about ‘Jeff’ and his new ad campaign ideas…. Or even better! He could shave. Then Andy could do a full reset. No more ‘Jeff’ for him! That guy left after the smoothie thing. No, Andy’s the new hotness in town, canny and clean shave-</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Thock. Thock. THOCK. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The door creaks open.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Without thinking, Andy bolts into the pantry. His higher-order consciousness gives way to some rabbit-ish instinct in his hindbrain that says, “hop, crawl in a hole, shove your face into a head of lettuce and never come back.” And just like that, he finds himself shrouded in the darkness amidst stacks of foodstuffs, with only the thin bars of light coming from the door slats crossing over his pallid face. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">With his eyes winced shut, he hears only the rustling of Clint’s rummaging, the jostling of tableware, clinking glass… It sounds like a bear rummaging through a dumpster. Then, it’s broken by the electric buzz of a blender WHIR WHIRRING to life.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Clint Kendall is absolutely pissed. He’s so pissed, he’s making his own food. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Oh fuck. Oh damn. Oh I’m the worst!</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The very thought is insane. It’s like watching a lion make a sandwich, and just as terrifying. The very peak of humanity huddles over a stained kitchen counter, his rippling back stretching the bounds of his black blazer, threatening to tear a seam. His massive, liver-spotted fingers shake with an addict’s tremors as he fumbles with packages too small for his mighty grip. One by one he pulls out the goji berries, the jackfruit, the carob, and heaps it into a pile on the blender blades… Now, the protein. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Clint’s narrowed, predatory eyes gaze down nutrition labels like he’s mapping the veins on the neck of a fresh kill… and finding them wanting. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The real meat is in the pantry. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy struggles to still his breathing as the leader of men advances upon the thin, slatted door. It seems impossible to Andy that Clint doesn’t see him back…but the tilted slats offer him a one-way view, like a police commissioner watching a brutal interrogation through a two-way mirror, or a zookeeper watching the apes rip each other apart in their pen. It’s short-lived, as those tightly manicured fingers wrap around the door handle…</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">And as fast as a claw tearing a throat, Clint’s massive hand sweeps in, and drags out his prize.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Heart beating like the drum in a marching band, Andy gazes down to see the prey sliding away: a midsize subscription-order box of raw meat. Upon it, a culturally confused Cromagnon pig dons the laurels of Julius Caesar, while holding a cartoonish sceptre of bone-in ham. He smirks like a true conqueror, despite his dead black-button eyes. The cannibalistic display is offset by a dollar-like banner with letters stamped as if they could be on cattle brand: “CK NATURALS,” with a misprint warping the “T.” </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">One might expect this meat to be in the fridge, but CK Naturals redefines “Fresh, never frozen,” with their motto “Live meat never dies!” and “Green, fed by the finest arctic algae! Feast on the vital proteins of your ancestors.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The eponymous CK swings the box onto the counter, heaping it like a cinderblock onto the foundation of a new development. He tears away the lid, grips the sausages mightily, and begins feeding the pig-links into the hungry clear plastic maw of the Mega-Bullet Blender. With a vicious zeal, he follows it up with a heap of bloody mincemeat, pulled pork, and the next sausage link. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">CK’s breathing hastens. His cracked lips draw back, showing his whitening gums as he bares teeth, white splattered red by the stuffing, crunching, squelching of his punches pounding the morsels into the blender…</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Veins pop and pulse on his temples as he places the lid, presses the button, and lets whirr again the hellish whine of spinning blades to macerate the flesh, tear the tendon, rip the skin… Clint’s mouth and eyes water with a positively wriggling intensity, until soon his meal is turned to a fine pink- and red-marbled slurry. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">There’s hardly a breath between the blend and the gulp. Clint tips it back, pausing only to loosen his crimson tie so his throat can bulge as he horfs down the drink. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, guiding the sweet carnivorous juice, jumping up and down like a bullied kid being shaken by the ankles for his last few quarters. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Clint Kendall, peak of perfection, lets out a relaxed sigh as the pinkish kill crusts across his lips.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">There’s a blessed, pregnant pause.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Then, hot breath beats down through the slats of the pantry door.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The world fogs. Droplets of moisture cling to the intern’s glasses.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“ANDY.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Shit. His heart beats like a metal band’s drum, threatening to end his career early.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“This is how you EAT, Andy… Dense nutrition, farm to table, whole and unprocessed… fat is fuel, seasoned by nature!” Clint lets out a cackle, and sweeps Andy’s chin up into his paw, gripping his cheeks like a taco as he stares into his eyes.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Green AND good, it’s fueled by the algae of the ancients! We’re all just stardust, kid… Ashes to ashes… FARM TO TABLE.” His eyes widen, taking up Andy’s entire view: a pair of hellish, white stars taking up the sky in a supernova of madness. Then, to make the nightmare worse… Ringed, wormy tendrils wriggle free from the sockets, fingering at the air, reaching, reaching for Andy, before finding the surface of Clint’s fleshy sclera and digging back into it like fresh, loamy soil… Little flares of hungry life dig out then arc back in like solar flares. Below, the star’s lips widen into a Hollywood “grin that could kill” with its bone-chipped teeth, zig-zagging mites, and acrid odour… the Komodo dragon’s kiss. So close, and getting closer.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Fermentation is your friend, Andrew. Ferment with us.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Once fragile, now broken, Andy’s mind is cast adrift. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He lay for hours upon heaps of cauliflower flower, trying to reconcile the stress of his hellish life, and the madness that it has just shown him. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy lays limp in a dreamlike state until the evening security finds him hyperventilating in the breakroom, and promptly wheels him out by the shoulders. Andy’s worn pleather shoes take him the rest of the way to the car. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">While Andy’s brain fails him, his muscle-memory is more than adequate to pilot the steering wheel of the familiar old Ford Pinto. The campaign signs wave at him as he departs, forlorn and blowing in the wind, but the words are twisted:</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">GREEN AND GOOD.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">TAKE LIFE BY THE HORNS.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">RAW LIFE FOR RAW MEN.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">FERMENT WITH US.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">On the highway, on the TV screen, everywhere… he sees Clint Kendall’s face. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Clint is the idol, the genius! No, he’s the monster that lives amongst the stars… a supernova! The future.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">—</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">On autopilot, Andy finds himself at the pet store. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Somehow, he has managed to block out the hardship of before. He’s an intern, after all. He is blessed with the superhuman ability to filter out traumatic experiences until, one day, he’ll inevitably spill them all over a therapist’s notepad. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">For now, Andy browses the aisles to find dog kibble for Pascal. As his eyes scan the labels, his thumbs type out the rest of his shopping list on his phone. Making lists has always been a calming practice for Andy. Today, it begins:</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Kibble for Pascal. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Diet-urinary-senior-sensitive digestion. Dr. Canin’s advanced formulae.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">A rubber ball, round nubbins.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">A stress stick.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">His rubber heels skid to a stop in the medicinal aisle. A thin, white box with a happy canine has caught his eyes… The label calls out to him like a siren, promising happy dogs with full bowls and healthy tummies.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Worming solution,” he mutters to himself. He takes a beat to let it sink in.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Worming solution,” he repeats, testing the words out in his mouth.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Then he opens the app and adds:</p>
<ul class="wp-block-list">
<li>Fenbendazol, heart-friendly tapeworm treatment</li>
<li>Praziquantel — worm formulae treatment dropper topical formula. </li>
<li>Parentel pamoate, suspension</li>
<li>Jackfruit</li>
<li>Carob</li>
</ul>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He pockets his phone.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy is certain will never mess up one of Clint Kendall’s meals again. Next time, he will use the heritage meats. Next time, he will find rare flesh. Next time, he will make his hero proud.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">A good analyst must take care of his candidate. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Even in this moment, Andy’s eyes shine with a pollyannaish hope. It’s the same hope that has ended marriages. Lives. Empires. At the very core of his turgid optimism, four very dangerous words echo in this upstart’s unconscious mind, ricocheting off of neurons with the grace of a whirring blender. Even interrogated and beaten, Andy would never admit to them. However, if you could lay his heart on a table and slice it neatly in half, you would find written like a ransom note:</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">I can fix him.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">When Clint Kendall gives him a second chance to make that smoothie, it’ll be a drink he never forgets. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">—</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Here’re yer pills, kid,” buzzes the heap-haired nurse as she slides a plastic cup across the window’s short plastic counter.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Andy scoops it up in his hand and tosses his antipsychotics back with a gulp.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Looking down, he sees a pair of sea-green scrubs bound by tight elastic, leading down to bare feet on speckle-tiled hospital linoleum. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Before he can contemplate his navel for long, a silver tray obstructs his view. It shepherds a gleaming glass of orange juice and, most prominently, a triangle sandwich. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The bologna is just right: pink in the middle, just how he likes it. It has all the Vitamin C, branch chain amino acids, and nutrients he could ever crave. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">As shadows pass over the surface of the meat, Andy’s itching eyes catch the telltale wriggling of little ringed worms. The questing parasites pop up and burrow back down, like hungry groundhogs. That is, until they catch the warmth of his hovering hand nearby. They pause, then raise up like long, wiggly fingers… questing, craving his brain matter… </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The worms lust for Andy’s aptitude in statistics.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Fortunately, Andy is saved by the piquant melange of preservatives in the bread. The worms soon give up their reach, and then later give up their bodies with a crunch. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">This isn’t pork of the stars. It’s just lunchmeat.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">It is, however, accompanied by a rolled up newspaper. It makes no mention of Clint Kendall’s near-poisoning, but it has plenty to say:</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“CLINT KENDALL CONCEDES.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“WAR IN SAMOTHRACE.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">And finally, on page eleven:</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“CLINT KENDALL NAMED NEW MINISTER OF HEALTH.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">It’s a job well done.</p>
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<span class="cat-links"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/lore/" rel="category tag">Lore</a></span><h2 class="entry-title"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/06/09/a-world-through-shattered-eyes/" rel="bookmark">A World Through Shattered Eyes</a></h2> </header>
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<span class="posted-on"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/06/09/a-world-through-shattered-eyes/" rel="bookmark"><time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-06-09T07:43:00-04:00">June 9, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2021-12-05T08:09:36-05:00">December 5, 2021</time></a></span><span class="byline"> <span class="author vcard"><a class="url fn n" href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/author/estridemail/">Phoenix & Rook</a></span></span> </div><!-- .entry-meta -->
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<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Shattered eyes look out over the horizon, taking in the gleaming curvature of the world. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Red embers flicker behind fragile irises. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Pallid lips curl into a sinner’s smile, a grimace that mocks the gentle glow that spills over mountains. That pale, warm light ends its journey as it falls on his wolfishly-angular features. The rays of light bring a million tiny deaths to the surface of him, unseen microbiota that spawn and extinguish in an instant. These deaths bring him nourishment and color, for he is plague personified.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He sits on an ashen boulder, reclining with his broad back against the stone. The cool surface is a relief against his jagged spine, easing pains that have walked with him through life. Long years of travel wear deeper with every step — it shakes up the shins, unsettles the knees, and then snakes through all the bones from earth to sky. An afternoon’s stroll can be rejuvenating; a thousand year’s travel takes its toll. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Life calls for death, glory for shame. Health brings illness. It’s the dance of eons, the ballad of making and unmaking and it is…</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"><em>Tiring.</em></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“…Where shall I walk next?” He wonders in a voice like cracked vellum, smooth yet broken.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He raises a hand to the great pale light. He yearns to see the golden rays spill between his fingers, glorious as it was for the trees on the horizon. Instead, he’s confronted with profanity: a warm glow inhabiting his flesh, illuminating the softness of his fingers in gentle amber. The darkness of the bones remains at the core, black and unforgiving. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Here, too, is ceaseless mortality.The traveller finds it everywhere. It’s both what he seeks and what he brings. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“This is not enough,” he whispers to the unchanging horizon. “My efforts are not enough. I need to bring something new to this song.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"><em>But what? </em></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Time passes. Dust blows through his hair, salting the strands, abrading his cheeks. The road has brought him nothing. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Twenty sky-cycles ago, he walked with the caravans. Ragged clothes, dust-pocked faces, people left adrift on the wind. Like him, they were strangers in any land. Like him, their lives were ones of endless travel. In walking beside them, the traveller hoped to find some meaning, and to create something wonderful and new.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">With his road-worn boots drying by their fires, he would sit in their company, share their cups, their dances, and their kisses. He was handsome of face, long of limb, and kind in his words. All in all, he was a creature made to affect, to reflect, and most importantly… to infect. Others were drawn to him, and he drew them yet closer. Even when the campfire’s light burned out, he’d formed associations and friendships, shaking hands and sharing embraces of camaraderie.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">His touch was a kill. Cheeks that once blushed soon turned pale with sickness. Lips that curled at his passing soon became dry, cracked, racked around coughs. One by one, the people who walked beside the wagons began to ride within them. Proud fighters became misshapen lumps beneath sheets. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Leaders and followers soon began to do little at all except sleep through the day and wait for their misfortune to pass.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">One at a time, these caravans wilted by roadsides. Even their steeds, whom he’d stroked at the mane, began to litter the trails. Strong beasts returned to the earth.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Somehow, the traveller remained dissatisfied. His efforts became known across the countryside, and soon, cities ceased to open their doors. He’d done nothing but draw suspicion to an already-waning crowd. In time, that crowd became suspicious of him in turn. Caravans became insular. They learned tricks of medicine, they learned the profane preventions known to temples. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">One long day, the traveller approached the strongman of a performing caravan — a real gurran behemoth of a man. The lanky specimen, broad and barrel-chested, regarded him with lifted brow. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Well ‘ello. May I help you, lost traveller?”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“I am weak of back, light of limb. I could use some training… May I borrow one of your weights?”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“For sure, for sure. Strength is gain’t through pain, my friend. Join me in my labors.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">And so he did, and he made a strong show of it. He’d killed recently, and it brought vigor he’d needed. He lifted the irons high, and ingrained them deeply with his touch. When he threw them to the soil, the strongman guffawed with laughter and clapped him on the back. At this, the traveller grinned with triumph.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">It was only to his dismay then, that the strongman then washed his hands and boiled his weights upon a kettle over fire.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“An ol’ superstition, learn’t it from the Kindlers. Purify it with the light of the ‘ol pale fire. Y’best try it yourself! Sick goes ‘round.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Around indeed. To travel would never be enough. Shattered eyes, red lights, the pale of his cheeks… He hid them well from others, though he could not hide the deaths he’d brought. This trail took him far and wide, but too shallow into cities, too rarely into homes. If this world were to know his brilliance, his unique brand of affection, then he would need to become something very, very much else.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">By one blighted caravan, he stopped to consider a wagon’s carcass. Within, a family of four slumbered their last. Each could hardly be called corpses. They’d become skeletal lumps in rags, wretches drowned in misery. Below, the wagon wheels had gone to rot, with strong kruckwood besotted with moisture and mold. The wagon’s undercarriage crashed into the dirt, half-buried, and buried yet further with every passing rain and dust storm. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The wrapped canvas peeled from the wagon’s bows, half-pinned with nails, half taken by the wind. It billowed like waves, flapping upon a prairie wind. It stood there as a standard of surrender, of conquest, a white flag telling all that came: “Do not stop here. Do not tarry. Our goods are gone to brigands, and our hearts are gone to the soil.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">A queer fascination struck the traveller, and he wrapped one hand around the canvas’ edge, capturing it from the wind. As he pulled it taut, he saw something he’d scant expected: a pure pallor, bleached by the shardlight that spilled across it. Not the rain, nor the dirt, nor the carcasses beneath could ever have changed the canvas. It remained resilient and unblemished, lighter than the sun, smoother than bone. It was the soul of the wanderers that he could never taint.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">And so, taint it he must.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The traveller violently ripped the canvas from the wagon bows, prying and tearing it from the nails. He went about his work with the brutality of a feasting skygg, a hungry scourge, a hound ripping skin from flesh. In time the canvas came away in tatters, leaving the wagon behind as a skeletal corpse, its former inhabitants laid out like entrails beneath an unkind sky. This dead beast needed its skin no longer, especially not one so pure and tooth-white.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">No sooner than the traveller had drawn it about his shoulders than the canvas had become his own. Ripped fibers mended once again, and shapeless skin turned to clothes. He was a being that corrupted all he’d touched, and as he claimed his prize, it came to suit him. Ripped ends wrapped ‘round into sleeves, frayed spans turned to collar and coat tails. Bent nails turned to iron buttons, and the canvas, writ large, became a pure white coat.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The traveller would be lost no more.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The Visitor in White was born.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The Visitor turned his shattered eyes away from the horizon he’d so hated. The embers of his eyes flickered and burned for more. Like in a dream, he took to the air without walking. Like a nightmare, he found another unfamiliar shore to crash upon: a city on a hill.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Before him stood towering stone walls – limestone, flint, granite, and mortar of sand, lime, and water. The walls were born of labor and audacity, stone stacked on stone, a monument to mankind’s gall. They were made to turn away speartips, to baffle the monsters of the land, blunting swords and claws alike. The hunger of brigands and beasts failed against such measures. It was a match for monsters, but they had never met a monster quite like him.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Every wall had a door, and he had a knack for finding them. All he had to do then was stand alone before the guards, spread his arms, and present them with his brightest smile. Unlike peasants and paupers, he brought them vague promises spoken through pearlescent teeth. The dirt of the road never stuck to his clean shardlight-white coat, and thus he, too, must be clean. They felt that the beautiful must also be unimpeachable. The Visitor, noticing the success of his spotless coat, brought out sheafs of papyrus, each in fact bleached and empty, though to the eyes of onlookers, they were penned brilliantly with meaning and certification. The gatekeepers saw in the papyrus the promises they’d needed fulfilled. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">There was no need for forgery, when their hearts already sought lies he’d never bothered to tell. They took to him like flies to mouldering wheat. In return, he smiled, and the edges of his lips never reached his shattered eyes. The broken sclera glittered with delight.The embers within flickered side to side, like flame to paper, not knowing what to begin to devour. A whole new realm of potential opened up to him with the rising of the iron portcullis, and with the first few, giddy steps he took beyond those city walls. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">House calls, but not ones that were requested. He became the blight of learned men, fools that he’d bested. Where they’d spent years learning to turn away pox and boils, he brought vague hopes, joys, and lies to thwart their toils. The best successes were salves and venoms, pretty names, caustic agents, and false tinctures for vim. There was nothing that could stop him. Door by door, porch by porch, he made his way into homes. One after the other, they turned sick, and he bound up their sheets. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"><em>He bagged up their bones. </em></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Manic victory. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">It was his first grand success, and in days the city between the walls was emptied. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Like the wagon on the roadside, it became blasted, cracked open to the world. Anyone could now walk through that old portcullis. The men who’d once manned them first held kerchiefs to their lips, then bedsheets, then old white tarps. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">When he left, the city was returned to the world, though the world was not keen to take it back. Brigands seldom entered its walls, fearing they, too, would be wracked with coughs and meet the city’s old fate. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The embers of his eyes burned brighter, like small suns within their sockets. This was what the world needed. Ages ago, the hope of this world’s celestial light had been shattered, sundered, and returned to the land. Now here it is, reborn in his eyes. It’s a hope of an age past. It’s the falsehood that this world really needs: a true balm. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Sickness? <em>No</em>, the land was sick with despair long before his passing. Before, the city’s standard rotted above the walls, faded cloth half-lost to the wind. Now it was exactly where it belonged: planted in the dirt, eaten by worms, reprocessed and made grand. In life, the city was a mockery, a charade, fading every day with its shattered glory. In sickness, it found the cure to obscurity. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">In death, it became a legend. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Not enough. Not enough. The embers could burn brighter!”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Frustrated, he pounded the cobblestones with his fists. His knuckles turned bloody.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Rage overtook him. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The bodies had ceased to move. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">They mocked him with their stillness. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">With his success, no one remained to sing his praise. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"><em>“How?”</em></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He felt great satisfaction as he’d fooled them, triumph when they took to their beds. He’d even felt glee, delight, when the men in masks came and counted the dead by their heads. But then what? The illness, the death, it passed and then it was gone.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Now the visitor is left in the street, enraged and alone. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“What next? What next? I must become a god among the damned!”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">His blood splattered across the stones. The wounds on his knuckles festered, boiled, and then closed. In time, his composure returned, and the hatred in his eyes continued to burn. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“A story. A tale! I need to hurt those who will speak of me, long before they’ve passed.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">So he turned his back once more, a wave gone to find yet newer shores. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Another span of walls rose before him, yet these were grander, unsullied, and much more than stone. Florid banners flew high over stylized parapets, crisp edges bore gilded engravings, and like cathedrals, these walls told stories in stained glass. Across the panes, tales spun in sweeping flourishes of color: grand battles, heroes who took to the hills, ancient monuments to massacre. To the Visitor, this was a place to earn his fame. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Its name: Arrchestra.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The walls here honored killers, and he would not rest until he could rise above them all.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Before he could even begin, he’d heard children chanting, jeering with morbid gall… </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He brought out the usual trick: the white parchment, the unimpeachable cloak. It worked, though the guards took him for a joke. As he passed through the gate, he realized a new horror: there were many like himself, liars in their coats, hundreds more. Word of his conquest had already reached these shores. The worst part, yet? It had already become a bore. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“I bring you miracles, open up your doors!” </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Laughter came from inside.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“No thank you, good sir, we’ve no need for more.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Frustrated, he turned to a man by the roadside: pocked, brittled with age, and nearly dead. The Visitor checked him close and found specks of illness, spots on his head.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Here good sir, miracle tincture. Take one, take ten!”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The man smiled in good cheer and waved him away.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“You’ve already cured your pox? Well, I’ll help you do it <em>again!”</em></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The man silently turned his back.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">This city, so jaded, had no need for his wares. But for a man like him, what else was there? And then he saw, by torchlight and applause: a stage. A commoner’s play showcased the world’s flaws. He took to the stairs and placed a mask across his face. If he disguised himself as another, then there’d be no more disgrace. He told them lies again, but now they were beautiful. He bade them gather close, and through them, he feasted in full. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">One hall after another, filled, and then emptied. He rose in prominence. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Windows once full of candlelight went black. Dark providence.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Thinking this the height of success, he visited the elite: a special game. The Visitor in White himself would come to play. It would have been his masterpiece, a fine place to showcase his name. One by one, they gathered and giggled, telling stories of his travels. Then one by one he visited them, sent them to their beds, and they fell as corpses when sheets unravelled.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">It was quite a tale, and it too made its way to the stages. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t one for the ages. It worked once, and then he received no more invitations. They were wise to his tricks and his cheap imitations. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Where, still, were the heroes from those tales of war? It made no sense. They spoke of them. More importantly, he’d won wars before!</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Then he recalled the children’s laughter, and realized he’d become a mere doggerel.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He took to the parapets, manic with failure…</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">His blood boiled in his veins. Shame burned in his cheeks. He’d never felt such humiliation. He had to stop his lying, stop his rhyming, the rhythm to his tribulations. The songs, the songs, the songs, they were changing him! He had to stop. Even so, he could barely slow. Every attempt energized him. Every failure <em>infuriated</em> him. He clasped a hand around his wrist, and found it to be shaking, trembling with the hunger. Eyes blazing…</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">His shaking only stilled when he felt the wind through his hair once again. He was high, high above the city, free of the fever he’d brought to them and that they’d given to him in turn. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">There, he could see it. He could see the beauty of this city at last. It was something he’d missed during his manic attempts to bring ill throughout its populace. It was already so frenzied, so fevered, so wild before his arrival, and yet, there was something he’d missed: Order. Society. Compassion. There was a strange undercurrent to all of their works. He’d been fooled by the banners and stories of conquest painted across the outer walls. Between them, he found only storytellers. Had they never loved lies at all? Perhaps their whole society was founded, instead, upon the careful crafting of truths. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He’d been thwarted by a strange resilience of the soul.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Light around the city moved like the face of a clock. It was precisely timed. Everyone had a home, every sick person received a doctor, and every earnest lie was met with earnest mockery. People tended to this city with great care, and it bore the tender mark of those who kindled flames. Good people lit torches, and bid people who were sick to stay in their homes. The city adapted, and cared, and took care of people beyond its own. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">In the face of them, he felt like a piece of shattered glass.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He hated the feeling that rose in him in that moment, tangled sorrow, love, and hatred.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He saw that this land had already been struggling, and thus, been no stranger to struggling against him. He’d stepped to the edge of the parapets and gazed down over the walls. From above, he could finally see their design writ in glass, now inverted, a cautionary tale. The heroes were not meant to be hailed as they died on those fields, faces comical with dismay. They were simply lessons to be learned. Even the barrier itself was a parody: glass that could never stop the inevitable. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">This land had already faced a blight or two, and learned their lessons. It was a place that had no home for him. He had no choice but to leave this tale behind. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He’d achieved a handful of names, and nothing more.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He’d brought forth a few thousand deaths, and nothing more.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Up above, the flat white light of a swirling, sunless sky mocked him. It was like a father’s cold smile, disapproving of a vagrant son. It was the look of a victor, someone who’d say to themselves, “Yes, exactly as I predicted. Like a small flame, you flare, then flicker and wane. No more, no less.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The Visitor in White beat their fists against the ground once more. The dirt was unmoved, and like an uncaring mother, remained stoic and unyielding. A powder of dust covered his fists until they’d bleached a chalky white. Parched cracks formed in the knuckles, splitting open to reveal ruby flesh. The very sight of it was repulsive to him. It was a reminder that he, too, was something that could die. He, too, would one day become nothing.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">That hatred brought his blood, again, to a boil — and being a creature of manifestation, of pure will, his blood <em>did</em> in fact boil. The skin over his hands rose, bulged, then popped and fell. With each burst, a million tiny lights crept, then poured forth like flowing glass, first inching over his fingers, then surging, cascading over his flesh like hungry insects. They swarmed over his forearms, each one spreading, growing, then popping over the course of seconds.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"><em>Pop, pop, pop…</em></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"> Birth, life, death, birth life, death, <em>birth life death</em>…</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He watched in horror as they lived out their false lives on his skin, each shard of glass shattering upon expiry, embedding crystalline corpses into his flesh.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The Visitor in Light screamed in anguish, hating, ripping, until there was naught left of him but the smallest shards of glass. Lies and rhymes never worked because he was never a creature of man. He was an insect, born of dirt and sky. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">So like an insect, he sought a new hive.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">A great citadel loomed on the horizon: Grand, Stoic Rhytalo.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The walls stood taller than any he’d ever seen before. Rather than stone, great hexagons held up the fortress: man’s divisions, geometries, plans and grand designs. Rather than armored guards, uncaring automatons stood sentinel along the rims of the walls. There were watchers in the towers, but they stood vigil from afar, their eyes crossed in black and covered in cowl. It was a coward’s vanguard, though against the armies of men, no doubt effective.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Fortunately, Visitor had chosen to be an insect. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Despite its silence, this citadel stood as a core of the world. Wooden crates flowed in on the backs of beasts, iron crates flowed out on the backs of automatons. Within the walls, the wood was used. Within, the flesh was used. Import and export, supply and demand. All of it was on the cheap, lean, and efficient. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Everything was scheduled, nothing gone to waste, and nothing to spare. It was the picture of perfection, and with every arrival a guildmaster marked a piece of parchment, “Just on time. Just on time. Just… on… time.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The sentinels had no care for the small, crystalline creatures that entered the goods.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The beasts had no care as they ate of him in their feed, swallowed, and filled.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He had acted on instinct. He had not even known that there were people behind those walls, waiting for those goods, also waiting to be filled. Just like him, they too wore white — head to toe, daubed and grayed by the labors and dusts of the day. Yet with the way they took up the meat in the market, the way lived without tending, went sick without medicine, died without graves, they were like pure, freshly-driven snow. In them, pains rested comfortably in their joints, having never felt a life without an ache. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">They showed innocence in suffering.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He grew within them, one by one. Like the people of Arrchestra, the Visitor had learned from his mistakes. He did not arise at first — like the aches in their joints, he made himself comfortable, waiting for the day the bones would break. He embedded himself deep, resting crystalline in their lungs, filling them with pain, infecting them with light.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Production continued unabated.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">From hand to hand, the Visitor’s in Light’s blight spread.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">In the grand warrens, people were crammed in tight. They lived without privacy nor comfort and arose at first light. They were awakened by claxons, orders, voices from pipes. When they faltered, the voices bellowed louder, and swords were drawn at the first hint of a strike. Delays would bring only madness, imperfection, lost profit and goodwill. As the blood of this nation, it was a call they were required to heed. It was no matter that work could kill. When the halls grew dark, the voices in the pipes grew louder with the Visitor’s spread. They were all asking one question: </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Why won’t the wretches get out of bed?”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The goods did not arrive on time anywhere. As was the motto of the masters, there was never any excess — and in the times of famine, there remained nothing to spare. The few crates that did leave, the Visitor in Light rode inside.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">By the time he had left, he finally had a name — an acronym and a number, and before he knew it, he’d traveled worldwide. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He became a number, and he killed a number — such irony. You really are what you eat. It was a fine thing that he chose to travel again.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He killed quite a few within those sterile, uncaring walls. Yet even as the numbers drifted down to nil, he wondered: did he kill more for their poor goodwill? He’d gone rampant with glee, as the workers were forced to work, and the automatons pushed them back to the stone mills. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He took more of them then. The thought of it made him nostalgic, how their dedication became their end. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">In time, the city’s master on high — somewhere beyond the screaming pipes, the nutrient tubes, the bulbous windows — must have become wise. He took measures. The city began closing its doors, masking the inhabitants, and sequestering them into cubicles rather than grand bunkhouses. In time the Visitor in Light found this place was a fine cradle, but not a greenhouse to grow in. They stifled him in due time, much like how they stifled their people. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He then went abroad once more, and oh, did he take glee in returning to the arrogant Arrchestra. He’d learned lessons from the first pass. He’d learned to learn from those storytellers. He did not return as a man, a peddler, nor an insect. No, he returned clinging to the things they did love: crates of fine jewelry, bushels of gleaming taistberries, on the lips of illicit encounters. They did not love medicine, but they did love their delights. By his own fortune, he’d made men of medicine meaningless to these people. One by one, he snuffed out their lights.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">While they fell sick in their beds, they turned the well-meaning men in coats away. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Soon, he became Arrchestra’s ultimate decay. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The theaters turned to hospitals. The town squares turned to morgues. The grand, twisting canals became pipes for offal and waste. The grand orchards became withered, husked graves of the decadent. They clung to their stories, their delights all the while… Where grand Rhytalo seemed to be in folly, never learning, never listening, they at least knew to stay inside. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Arrchestra couldn’t bear to bolt its doors. An entertainment economy — was that the phrase he heard on those wine-parched lips?</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">It made him feel nostalgic again, the way the city crumbled to dust. It was as if it’d relied on the soaring spirits portrayed in those grand, stained-glass facades, and old plaques now covered in rust. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Without its joys, its pleasures, its cavorting and nightly endeavors, there really was very little to Arrchestra. The Visitor in Light never took note of it, but the city had relied on fae protectors. Their will was as fickle as the hearts of its people. When their plays, their joys, departed, these juvenile beings became broken — feeble. One by one, the city’s heroes left.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">What had made it so easy for greatness to wither?</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Perhaps if they’d had a grand foe, they would have stood strong.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Instead, there was just him — a speck of a thing, a nothing, hubris in a magnifying glass.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The shardlight cast finely across their amber orchards. Somehow, despite it all, they brought those failing plants back first. Their stocks soon overfilled with taistberries, gleaming ruby, though they dared not distribute to any but the city’s worst.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The prices rose, more bodies fell, and in time, it all came to pass. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"> </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Shattered eyes look out over the horizon, taking in the gleaming curvature of the world. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Red embers flicker behind fragile irises, alarming, but weak and failing.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The Visitor in Light once again strides across the dusty path. His boots are parched, his cheeks now weathered by the wind. His eyes still shine like shattered glass. His white canvas envelops him still, familiar and kind. It remains his only friend here, between the blazing-white sky and the harsh, cold earth. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He listens close, and smiles in serene pleasure as the wind sings him yet another dirge. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">A wretch howls at the wind: </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"><em>“Why did it have to be yesterday?”</em></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Vaipeas, now-named, turns to look upon him. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Like Vaipeas in his own time of wretchedness, this man prostrates, with his fists and knees ground into the dirt. His clothes are a-tatter, his tangled hair blows hither-and-yon. Lines of tears streak through the dust on his cheeks. His voice is like cracked vellum.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Why did it have to be yesterday? The day… <em>that you took her from me!”</em></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He howls at the wind, pounding his fists into the dirt. The stones crack his skin, break the knuckles, but no power bubbles forth — just blood, just skin and broken flesh. So he strikes the ground more, all for naught. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Curious, Vaipeas looks him over more closely, and can now see: his tattered linen cloak, and the Kindler’s sigil wrapped in a silver, dangling from his neck. He’s a worshipper of the arcing crescent of light that spans the horizon, the Great Fire, that fallen light from the sky. His departed Sun has done him only ill, it seems.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The dust of the earth trails through the man’s grasping, bloodied fingers… </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He’d be so easy to end. In that moment, Vaipeas considers taking the man’s chin up in his hands, to kill him with a touch. He could grip those ashen cheeks and watch, <em>slowly</em>, as the flush flees his skin and the light falls from his eyes. Perhaps in those final moments, the pupils would gleam like small, amber lights, and the irises would crack like glass…</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He laughs.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“What does it matter that it was yesterday?” Vaipeas asks, turning on him.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">The wretch doesn’t waver or whimper, for he’s already broken. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“If it were tomorrow, things would have turned out the same. Ne’er would you have predicted. Ne’er would you have prevented. This is your lot. I come when I please, and you die, and there’s naught in between. It’s the way of you small folk to die. It’s simple, it’s clean.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">And then the man recounts a tale: one of dogged pursuit. Be-masked and cloaked, he’d chased the Traveler, the Visitor, the Number, Vaipeas from city to city. He’d marked every new name in a tattered journal. He’d taken note of every weakness, every symptom, every medicine, even as they’d changed. He’d run up the ramparts to scream the names. He’d run into the halls of kings, the feasting dome of Arrchestra’s fine-silked Symposiarch, the maze-like citadel of Rhytalo’s grand Architect. Neither listened to him, until the time came. Then they snatched his notes, praised this poor wretch, until the Visitor shifted and stole this small man’s light. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He was a man chasing yesterday to prevent tomorrow.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">It strikes Vaipeas as curious, and again, yes, as a tad nostalgic. Did he see this man once, back in that first shuttered city? Was he a boy with dust-pocked cheeks, bereft of his mother? Was he a grizzled father, hair peppered with grey, having lost a wife and a life as the Visitor peddled his wares? All too possible. He never really did take note of their faces. The “who” of them never really did matter.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">But then, something occurs to the Blighted God.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">He looks upon the man, not with pity, but with a sense of reverie. Like in a trance, the Blighted God speaks, and strange words leave his lips:</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Perhaps the land that we’ve been born into is blighted…”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“But the things that you’ve done have not been in vain.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">“Believe in the choices you’ve made.”</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">Man against nature, nature against man… They both long to thrive, to grow, to deprive. </p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">They found understanding in hatred for one another, their love for life, and in resolve.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph">And so the God of Blight turned away, and the chase did begin again.</p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"></p>
<p class="wp-block-paragraph"></p>
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<span class="cat-links"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/" rel="category tag">Teller of Fortunes</a></span><h2 class="entry-title"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/04/28/teller-of-fortunes-2-25-the-chopon-dungs-important/" rel="bookmark">Teller of Fortunes 2-25: The chopon dung’s important.</a></h2> </header>
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<span class="posted-on"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/04/28/teller-of-fortunes-2-25-the-chopon-dungs-important/" rel="bookmark"><time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-04-28T06:33:57-04:00">April 28, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-04-27T20:36:26-04:00">April 27, 2020</time></a></span><span class="byline"> <span class="author vcard"><a class="url fn n" href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/author/estridemail/">Phoenix & Rook</a></span></span> </div><!-- .entry-meta -->
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<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Looking across the camp, Ane can see the two figures cast in the fire’s glow. The callosian covered in protrusions is gathering up portions for them, while the mass of wings mostly just… Well, flaps, as far as she can tell.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She heads out towards the pair with long, determined strides. About halfway through, Ane catches herself — she smooths her fingers through her dark hair, softens her shoulders, and eases herself into a casual saunter with a faint sway of her hips. It’s a subtle change, but one that at least helps her and Vasht avoid looking like they’re marching into an inquisition. As much as she’s pushed to take things slow and be friendly, it’s difficult not to charge ahead like a gurran down a thoroughfare. </span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">What the Void is Jarrik up to?</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht takes a similar tack, adopting one of his casual swaggers. He has about six of those. Three of them are more like brooding-in-motion, but he has one that’s normal, one that’s cocky, and one that’s completely inappropriate here. He’s going for the normal one. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">On the inside, he similarly wants to know what the Void Jarrik is doing. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">When the two of them arrive near the cooling food cauldron, the two new arrivals are finished scooping out their own portions. Neither speaks. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Hello,” Vasht greets them warmly. “I saw Jarrik walk you in, so I figured I’d come welcome you too. The name’s Vasht,” he says with a genuine smile. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Ane,” Ane says, following his lead. She offers the pair a bright smile and an extended hand, on the off chance either are in the position to shake it. She’s not sure, but it seems remiss not to.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The two of them exchange glances, then look back at Vasht and Ane. The callosian doesn’t move, but the mass of wings — a tzuskar, in reality — reaches out and shakes Ane’s hand. It’s hard to tell if the person inside is tall or short, thin or fat, male, female, of the Skrajjic third-sex, or something else entirely — the wings all over their body are similar in size to the ones on their back. Even up close, you can barely see a face through the gaps.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Lurim,” the tzuskar answers evenly.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Pimsun, or just Pim,” the callosian answers. Vasht begins to offer him a handshake, but the callosian politely waves it away. The many craggy mounds on his arms seems to make moving them unpleasant, and even shifting his weight is accompanied by the sound of creaking and cracking carapace.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Nice to meet you both,” Vasht says amiably. “I’m the knife thrower, and she’s the fortune teller. We do a lot of the odd jobs around here, taking care of the caravan,” he says, by way of explanation. “So if you two need anythin’, don’t hesitate to ask. Right, Ane?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Right,” she nods, “You picked a good time to come — we’re actually getting ready to roll onward. Do you both have a place to stay?” With some effort, she manages to keep the question breezy and nonchalant.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The callosian, Pim, murmurs in thought.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Somewhat. The talkin’ man said we got one,” he says gruffly, looking dour under the scale-mound erupting from his left-brow.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Stuck us in the scullery wagon,” Lurim chimes in, in a nasal voice. “Not that either’a us can cook, or that there’s a bed or anythin’ in there.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Mm… Yeah, space is a bit dear at the moment, I think,” Ane apologizes, “But I’m sure we can try to find some bedding between us and the other caravanners, at least.” A beguiling expression of feigned perplexity crosses her face, even accompanied by a faintly pouting frown. “Though, if Jarrik doesn’t mean for you to </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">cook</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">… It’s odd he’d put you there. What did he have in mind?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“The fop didn’t say,” Pim says glumly. “Said we’d get to travel, get away from S’varga.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Oh, he had a whole schtick about helpin’ the downtrodden,” Lurim says, with a fair air of cynicism. “When I asked ‘im what we gotta do, he just said…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Perform, if you like,” says Jarrik’s voice, coming out from under those wings. The tone is flowery, flattering, unctuous. Typical Jarrik.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht jumps a bit, and Lurim chuckles under the burden of feathers. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Sorry, gets people e’rry time. I’m a skil’t mimic, for sure.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane raises a brow.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Impressive,” Vasht appraises. “Quite a talent.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The callosian chuckles sullenly. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Not one we bein’ hired for. People don’t exactly buy us on for our cheery wit, if you get my meanin’,” he mutters, shrugging a crag-cracked shoulder to demonstrate. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Well, I’m sure you’ll find something to fill your days with,” Ane says brightly, “At least, when you’re not doing what Jarrik hired you for..?” She trails off, adding an uncertain rising inflection that turns it into almost-but-not-quite-a-question.</span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">So, Jarrik didn’t say anything to them about requiring them to perform, and they want to leave S’varga. He’s trying to play this off as a charitable endeavor, but he’s so full of shit I can smell it from here.</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Oh, prob’ly,” Lurim agrees. “So long as I ain’t gotta cook. Do you know what happened the last time I tried to cook?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“It was like twenty burnt vlearks, and all of em’ were silly-mad,” Pim adds helpfully.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht nods in understanding. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I don’t think that’ll be a problem… We all take turns when it makes sense. Even so, there are caravan followers,” he says, vaguely flapping a hand at the latter half of the wagon train. “No one’s gonna make you cook, and they’d get an earful if they did.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Eh, well enough,” Pim says agreeably. “That said, you mentioned a bed?” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I need a fluffy cot, I do. Big, downy pillows,” Lurim says wistfully, almost fantasizing. There’s a smile of wonder somewhere on there, audible in their voice.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Bit ironic, idn’t it? But that’s ‘is thing,” Pim explains.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Feels better on me tail, too,” Lurim adds helpfully.</span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Tail?</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I don’t know if we can scrape together a bed on short notice, but hopefully there’re some blankets and pillows to be had.” Ane turns to Vasht with a cant of her head. “What d’you think?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Yeah, I’m sure we can pull together some extra-fluffy pillows,” Vasht agrees easily. “A mattress will take more time, but when we’ve got something, you get first pick.” He smiles, his visible eye crinkling with amusement. He probably thinks the bit about the tail was a joke.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Mighty squiffy,” Lurim says with approval. Neither Ane nor Vasht knows what that means, but it’s the tone that seems to matter.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I’m not much for fluffy stuff… but I’m gonna need salves soon, methinks,” says Pim, scratching at one of the peaks on his arm. “Get mighty itchy, ‘specially if I’m gonna be paid to get gawked at. Gawkin’ makes me itchy.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Oh, we’ve got those. I still have to make some, but Dynkala — the klorrian herbalist, she’s usually in her wagon — or Vaidna, the other herbalist, should have something that can help,” Ane says, with an airy wave of her hand. “Void, we’ve probably got the ingredients to compound you some, if there’re any salves that’ve worked well for you in the past.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Pim starts to open his mouth to reply, before Lurim promptly moves an arm(?) to cover it. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Nunna that, don’t be givin’ her a list right now. The day’s late.” There’s a muffled noise. “No, no, I get it. The chopon dung is impor- no, don’t give me that look. Stop sulking. Stop- Arright, nevermind,” Lurim says, uncovering Pim’s mouth and absolving themselves of responsibility.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“That’s a lotta healers for one group,” Pim says, with some astonishment. “May get some relief yet. Thank ye.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane nods. “No problem. We take care of our people,” she replies, “As best as we’re able to, anyway.” The grin that accompanies her words comes only with effort — thus far, Jarrik himself does not have a stellar record as a provider for his employees. She has no doubt that, were either of these two any worse off, they’d be in the same position as Thelorn.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Well, yer both a kind sort,” Lurim appraises. “More’n that weird fop. Anyway, thanks for all the trouble,” they say amiably.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Pim nods simply. “Been a pleasure,” he says, raising his bowl. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Yeah, we’ll let you guys relax. We can bring stuff by the wagon later,” Vasht replies. “Enjoy your dinner and whatnot.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Yeah, we’ll see what we can do,” Ane assures them. Once the pair has nodded their farewells and returned to eating, she shoots Vasht an uneasy hum. For all their guarded questions, it doesn’t seem like they’re much closer to an actual answer. </span><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht returns her glance and nods solemnly. When both of them are far enough away, he grumbles. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Yeah, same deal. No real request for work, no explanation.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Alright people, though.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Yeah, they seem friendly enough… Hope we can find a bed for them, eventually. For now — do you have any spare pillows or blankets?” She hooks a thumb into the waist of her trousers as she walks, with her hum turned on the spongy ground as she makes a mental inventory. She has a few pillows, mostly of the decorative sort. She might be able to find some spare sheets, but they aren’t much good without anything to put them on. </span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Why did Jarrik think he could just make them sleep on the floor?</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Yeah, I’ve got some spare pillows, and a quilt,” he answers, similarly pensive. “Don’t know what to do about the ‘bed’ part, but with enough pillows, we can at least give them something while we figure it out,” he strategizes, though he doesn’t seem completely in it. Mostly, the dilemma of how they’re being neglected — and yet not asked to work — doesn’t quite make sense to him. He takes a pause from his thoughts to glance up at Ane, donning a slight smile. “I’ll go scrounge some things up. Meet you at their wagon?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane nods pensively. She’s as lost as he is — is Jarrik just </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">collecting</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> people? </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Why? </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">He obviously isn’t putting any thought into their care, so he isn’t treating bringing them on as an investment in the caravan’s future. It seems like he couldn’t possibly care less what happens to them once they’re here.<br />
</span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">None of it makes sense.</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Sure, sure,” she answers with an absent murmur. A furrow creases her brow as she looks over her shoulder, stealing one last glance at the pair before she turns to go to her wagon.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The two of them are still sitting by the waning fire, eating their meal as they were. They seem like a fairly companionable pair — not gleeful, by any means, but happy enough. They sometimes move their arms slightly, subtly, as if gesturing while exchanging idle banter. </span></p>
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<span class="cat-links"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/" rel="category tag">Teller of Fortunes</a></span><h2 class="entry-title"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/04/23/teller-of-fortunes-2-24-act-casual/" rel="bookmark">Teller of Fortunes 2-24: Act casual.</a></h2> </header>
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<span class="posted-on"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/04/23/teller-of-fortunes-2-24-act-casual/" rel="bookmark"><time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-04-23T06:13:57-04:00">April 23, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-04-24T23:31:48-04:00">April 24, 2020</time></a></span><span class="byline"> <span class="author vcard"><a class="url fn n" href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/author/estridemail/">Phoenix & Rook</a></span></span> </div><!-- .entry-meta -->
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<p><span style="font-weight:400;">In concept, the caravan is an ideal place for people who become othered — whether physically or otherwise, whether by accident, design, or birth. There’s a way for them to make a living, experience the world, even earn admiration that might be otherwise difficult to find for those ostracized in a small town or lost to the underbelly of a city. All the caravanners get shelter and regular meals, and, with many hands making the work light, there’s enough time to pursue one’s talents. Even if the gawping crowds show up and hand over their coin to see a “freakshow,” they leave dazzled by performers with </span><span style="font-weight:400;">genuine skill. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">This all depends, of course, on those performers not being left in a neglected wagon with an overflowing chamber pot.<br />
Now Jarrik seems to be building a collection.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht, in the midst of his pacing, occasionally gives Ane a confiding glance. For now, at least, he has enough presence of mind to second-guess it. Perhaps it’s a good time to get answers. Perhaps it would make things more difficult for everyone. His posture looks uneasy — shoulders tense, feathers ruffled, teeth gritted all the while. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane tosses her still-half-full bowl down in front of her as she stands. When she catches Vasht’s sight again, she gives a firm jerk of her head in the direction of the river. It’s answers they need, and they’re not going to get them with grinding teeth and anxious glances. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">If Vasht was looking for an excuse, this is more than plenty. He leaps down from his wagon, landing on his boots with his dark wings fanned to soften the fall. He quickly hits his stride, heading towards the spot Ane indicates. As much as he’d like to rush right up to Jarrik, a huddle is probably wise.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">When Ane walks up, he’s standing with his arms crossed, back leaned against an ivory tree. He gives her a nod of acknowledgement as she approaches.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I see you’re keen to confront him too.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Though Ane’s stride is even and relaxed as she walks to the river, her fists are clenched tightly enough to cut half-moons into her palms. She shakes her head, whipping her cheeks with strands of dark hair. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Not in the least. Have you </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">met</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> Jarrik?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Heh. Good point. He doesn’t really do ‘confront,’” Vasht agrees, grimacing. “I guarantee the second I walk up to him, he’s going to have five reams of gurrshit ready to go,” he says with disdain, his visible eye narrowing at Jarrik with suspicion. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Exactly. He’s obviously up to </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">something</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">, but the odds of us — <em>any</em> of us — getting it out of him are about as good as a sailwhale learning to fly. Either way, him gathering up more performers just to end up leaving them to rot is </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">not</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> alright.” Ane turns her head, casting a wary glance over her shoulder. Even if Jarrik notices the two of them, it’s not likely he’ll chalk it up to anything more than a casual conversation… but still.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht drums his fingers on his bicep, nodding and thinking as he listens to Ane. The wing over his eye flaps in distaste. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“You’re right, he’s not going to give any real answers. The question is whether to wade through his nonsense now, or wait until a moot is called. Given how the others felt about what happened with Thelorn, I’m sure one’s soon to happen,” he says tensely, tightening his jaw. “Dealin’ with Jarrik is always some damn social calculus, and most of it is makin’ sure he doesn’t screw ya.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I’d say wade through it without him,” Ane ventures, with a faint tilt of her head, “Thelorn doesn’t know why he was brought here, but, to be honest, Thelorn hasn’t really had the luxury of knowing </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">much</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> outside of his wagon — he went from enslavement to here, from what he’s told us, so it’s not like Jarrik was going to make him privy to any of his big ideas. We don’t know anything about the newcomers, though… They might be a bit more savvy about the situation, yeah?” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">He furrows his brow for a moment, mulling this over. If nothing else, the expressions battling on his face seem to express cooling his hotheaded fire into a strategic simmer. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“You’re probably right… This pair might be more talkative. If they are, then they’re bound to have asked questions,” he figures, looking off towards them. The pair has begun walking back to camp with Jarrik and Vozhik, guided along by the bobbing torch. </span><span style="font-weight:400;">“Better than talking to Vozhik, too… Even if he does know anythin’, he’s more secretive than a smeerp in a greengrocer.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane gives a derisive snort and a sour purse of her lips. She wouldn’t be inclined to palaver with the reclusive magician on a good day — after his display during dinner, she has the feeling neither of them hold the other in any kind of esteem.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Leave Vozhik out of it. Judging by his complaining, he probably has a few choice words for you about the ‘jousting,’ anyhow.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht lets out a blunt scoff and shakes his head. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Of course he does,” he says with a smirk. “In any case, it looks like those two intend to show the newcomers around. Maybe we can greet ‘em in an hour or two, once the gurrshit-doctor is out of earshot.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Right. But Animus alive, </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">don’t</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> immediately start ambushing them with questions,” Ane cautions him sternly. “Remember, odds are they’re on Jarrik’s side right now. He might’ve shown up like a hero, far as they’re concerned. Jumping on the opportunity to start grilling isn’t going to get us anywhere.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Heh, you’re right,” he says with a self-effacing smile. “When’d you get such a sense for keeping my aim pointed right?” The tension in his shoulders relaxes somewhat, as he rests his head back against the ivory tree. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane shoots him an incredulous hum, accompanied by the subtle squint of fern-patterned swirls. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Literally give people advice for a living,” she says flatly, “I have to size most of them up the second they walk into my tent, pull some cards, and turn it into something useful.” She presses her lips together, to hide the skeptical grin threatening to sneak through. “Think I can’t do the same for you, when I’ve known you since practically before your balls dropped?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I like to think I’m a bit less readable, bit more mysterious than that,” he replies, smirking in return. “And trust me, I didn’t join </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">that </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">early…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Nobody’s that mysterious. Not even Vozhik. And it was early enough… What were you, twelve or so?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Fourteen,” he answers readily. “And it’s not like I’ve gone in your tent, weeping and asking what the shards have in store,” he says, flipping a hand towards the ceiling of the cavern. “As far as you know, I arose from the sea before joining the caravan,” he says with a jokingly-feigned mystique, tipping his chin up slightly. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Sure. The Littlest Pirate King,” she taunts, “Raised by crabs, left to make your own way in the world at the tender age of eleven.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Not the littlest; I was bigger than this other guy. He was eight,” Vasht informs her, holding back a smirk. “He had it rougher; had to be raised by snails instead. That’s why he was eight. They raised him too slow.” As he talks, his grin threatens to break through the gruff facade that the ‘retelling’ requires.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane hums at him for a long, quizzical moment, mouth open with unformed questions. Finally, a laugh bursts from her — a strangely euphonious sound after all their conspiring.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“‘Raised him too slow’?” She just barely manages to utter, “Okay, okay — </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Second</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> Littlest Pirate King.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Damn right! Plenty of adventures, loads of mystery.” He raises a brow, nodding in confirmation. He grins and adds, “I don’t know how much it takes to make you swoon, but I got started early. From there on?” He makes a sweeping gesture. “Just lousy with mystery, a downright handsome enigma.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“More than crabs and pirates,” Ane retorts flatly, “Besides — you were a gangly kid when you turned up here, how much mystery’d you possibly have hiding in your rucksack?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Ah. Good thing we made that up, then,” he says, brushing away his hypothetical career as a corsair monarch. He takes in a measured sigh. “Plenty, I guess…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;"> His rough hand drifts up towards his scarred cheek, before he resists the reflex and lowers it. His one visible eye glances furtively aside. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I didn’t join up here for fun. Not even sure it’s a choice I made.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I don’t think it’s a choice most of us made,” Ane agrees. Her voice softens, easing the edges from her sharply teasing tone. “It wasn’t one I was ever offered, at least.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Yeah, seems to be the way,” he agrees, his own tone turning the rough side of sincere. He seems to struggle with a thought, before he lets out an easing breath. “This is better than what I came from, though. It’s a good thing I like most of everybody, bastards notwithstanding.” He adopts a smile — not exactly cheerful, but with its own hard-won mirth.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane shrugs a shoulder gently, with a self-conscious cross of her arms. She pretends to flick a stray thread from the sleeve of her shirt, to give her gaze something to do that isn’t trying to meet his. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I wouldn’t know — this is where I came from, more or less. Not </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">here</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">, specifically, but you get my meaning.” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Yeah?” He half-asks, curious, but not wanting to pry. “Parents, right?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She holds up a finger.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Parent.” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Though she doesn’t seem inclined to continue, she can feel his unspoken questions thickening the silence between them. Ane touches her tongue to her lips briefly, as she subtly shifts her weight on the boggy riverbank. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Her name was Raunia. I never met her,” she explains, almost apologetic for her lack of detail, “We were — the caravan was, anyway — in a mountain pass. It was snowing, we had two wagons with broken axles… “ She makes an airy, looping gesture with one hand, as if that can smooth over the parts she wasn’t yet alive to — or just doesn’t want to — relate. “The timing was… bad. I survived, and she didn’t. Dynkala says she thinks my father was a tzuskar, but nobody ever actually met him. Raunia was pretty rowdy like that. And,” Ane adds with a touch of grim humor, “Tzuskar boys’re bad luck.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht listens attentively, with a sympathetic air. It’s easy to understand the situation she describes, insofar as: A., the caravan is not great with childbirth at the best of times, and B., mountain passes and broken wheels are vicious killers. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">That last note about tzuskar boys, however, earns a surprised laugh from him.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Hrm. Bad luck? Can’t say I disagree,” he says with his own note of grim humor, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m definitely not </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">good</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> luck myself… though I like to think I’d never abandon someone. Had enough of that from the other end.” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“You don’t have to abandon someone to be bad luck.” The corner of her lips turns down sharply, though briefly. It’s little more than the flash of a half-frown, a momentary crack in her humor that’s gone as soon as it arrives, but it’s a frown nonetheless. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“At any rate,” she continues, with a forced air of jocularity, “It’s not important… How’d </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">you</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> turn up in this merry band of bastards, Second-Littlest Pirate King?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Mh, well thanks for the reassurance. Yeah, I manage to be bad luck by stickin’ around,” he agrees, now tracing one hand along the bone-spire behind him. “Anyway, I’ll spare the details. Dad ran off to become an adventurer, came back as a bandit,” he says, his jaw tightening. The thought seems to send one of his hands warily drifting near his waist, though he plays it off by resting it on his hip.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“It was years later. Mom had moved on, wanted nothin’ to do with him… but he wanted plenty to do with us.” He averts his gaze, the wing over his eye twitching from the tension in his brow. “He got drunk, got mad… and tried to get even. I tried to stop him…” He shakes his head, washing the tinge of emotion from his expression. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Now I’m here.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">For a moment, Ane looks like she might as well have been hit in the stomach. Her belly tenses and her cheeks pale, and there’s a long silence before she can find the words to say through the bilious feeling in the back of her throat. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I’m sorry.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">They feel as leadenly inadequate here as they did when she was talking to Thelorn.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“It’s alright,” he replies almost immediately, offering a light smile of reassurance. “That was over a decade ago. Now, I just…” He looks off towards the rest of the caravan, going about its business. After the interruption earlier, everything has returned to its usual course for the time being. Jiselmo and Korin are telling another tale, Aedas is arm-wrestling over the pot of dinner, and Nelea is introducing a small camp follower to her animals. “This is weird, isn’t it?”</span></p>
<p>“Hmm? What is?”</p>
<p>Vasht shrugs a shoulder. “Like y’said, we’ve known each other for years. I knew you were born here, more’re less, but we’ve never actually talked about this before.”</p>
<p>Ane tilts her head gently from one side to the other, weighing her thoughts. “Mm… I guess. You know how it is, though — never really matters how someone ends up here, just that they do. Whatever happens outside of the camp stays there. I don’t know what Nelea did before this, or Wila, Vila, and Zila, or anybody. It’s not <em>that</em> strange.” She pauses for a moment. “Come to think of it, Thelorn’s the only one I’ve really asked about it. Everyone else? If they don’t bring it up, I don’t mention it.”</p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Fair point. Whatever happened before this… Eh, all that matters is trying to protect everyone. Keeps me awake, but, when you have dreams like I do, that ain’t so bad.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">A smile, albeit a wistful one, crosses her lips in return.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“And then there’re people like me, who give themselves bad dreams on purpose.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">He gives her a curious look. </span><span style="font-weight:400;">“Well I hope they’re interesting ones, at least.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Mm,” she murmurs, before holding out one slim hand and tilting it from side to side. “It varies. Most of them are useful, if nothing else… Some are even relaxing.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“More productive than mine. If it made any sense, I’d ask you to take me along sometime. If it’s crossing planes, flying ‘round dark forests or exploring weird Voidscapes, well,” he lowers a hand, donning a more warm smile now. “I’m sure it’d be a damn lot more fun with you.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane gives a short laugh. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Baby steps. You wouldn’t be the first person I’ve guided, but, like as not, I’d spend the whole time holding your hair back while you threw up out my window.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">His smile becomes a grin.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Alright, make sure you hold the wing too.” He raises a hand to it, gently lifting the feathers from the eye underneath. “It can reach pretty far down if it’s of a mind to.” He lets it go, then puts his hands back at his hips. “Anyway, shall we get on to meeting with these newcomers? We’ve been chatting long enough for Jarrik to get bored, and it’s helped me cool my heels besides.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She darts a glance over her shoulder. Nelea’s operating an impromptu petting zoo, Aedas’s upset his bowl of stew, and Jiselmo and Korin are probably indulging in either a very animated story, or a relatively subdued argument. If it’s going to be done, it might as well be now.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I guess so. It couldn’t hurt, I don’t think… Not if we just try to be friendly, at least.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht presses a heel to the ivory tree, pushing off from it. “I think I just saw them wander off past the fire. Probably grabbed a late dinner. Let’s go.”</span></p>
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<span class="cat-links"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/" rel="category tag">Teller of Fortunes</a></span><h2 class="entry-title"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/04/21/teller-of-fortunes-2-23/" rel="bookmark">Teller of Fortunes 2-23: Most wroth.</a></h2> </header>
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<span class="posted-on"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/04/21/teller-of-fortunes-2-23/" rel="bookmark"><time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-04-21T06:02:52-04:00">April 21, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-04-20T22:17:34-04:00">April 20, 2020</time></a></span><span class="byline"> <span class="author vcard"><a class="url fn n" href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/author/estridemail/">Phoenix & Rook</a></span></span> </div><!-- .entry-meta -->
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<p><span style="font-weight:400;">In the distance, the caravan’s magician heads off toward the edge of the camp. He’s grabbed up a torch, casting his stark features in half-shadow. He wanders out and greets three figures approaching from the city — the caravan master among them.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">As Vozhik stops and palavers with Jarrik, the light of his torch falls upon the two newcomers. One is a ruptured silhouette at first, resolving into a callosian covered in long, lumpy protrusions like the back of a Skrajjic rock-lizard. It’s almost uncomfortable to look at, the way his clothes appear to warp to fit his distorted shape. The weight of the crags along his shoulders and back seems to hold him down, forcing his posture to stoop low.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The other is… a collection of birds? A flock of massive, twitching wings? And yet it stands in the vague shape of a man. It’s hard to tell whether there’s a person beneath them.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Jiselmo, rubbernecking all the while, speaks for the rest as attention falls upon this spectacle.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“… What the<em> fuck</em>?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane twists around in her seat, craning her neck to see what Jiselmo’s spotted. When she does, her nostrils flare in anger.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“More people for Jarrik to shove in a hay wagon and ignore, looks like,” she mutters through clenched teeth as she drops her spoon into her bowl with a clatter. She casts a hum in Vasht’s direction, wherever he’s off brooding. Though he’s plenty far from the group, she raises a brow at him with an unvoiced, </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Do you see this shit?</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht, at this point, has switched to perching atop his wagon with his legs over the side. His expression is hardened as he watches Jarrik the distance, shaded under his sweep of wing and hair. Even as Vasht watches this spectacle, he can feel Ane’s gaze upon him. He turns to regard her with his single eye, shining in the light of torches below. He raises his brow in turn, his lips drawn in a stoic line, as if to say, </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Oh yes, this shit is seen.</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“At least he isn’t leading this pair with a group of handlers,” Korin mutters.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The burdened callosian moves and converses, despite his apparent discomfort. The group of wings stands close to him, somehow gesturing and expressing itself under that mess of feathers. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Wila huffs, and mutters, “There may be need to call a moot over this… If he’s building a ‘freak’ show,” she says with finger-quotes, “Then I will be </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">most wroth. </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">Simply vibrating with wroth!”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“So wroth that it gets all over us,” Vila mutters.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“So wroth that we must scoot her up an extra bed, just to get some beauty rest,” Zila chimes helpfully.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I don’t know what he’s doing. Nelea, have you spoken to Thelorn at all recently?” Ane asks warily, though her gaze never stops shifting between Vasht and Jarrik.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Nelea nods, though the gesture goes unseen. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“He seems to be doing better… We read to him, feed him, and he’s largely left alone.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vila scoffs. “The old man must be waiting until he has a full set of us…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">In the distance, Vasht is equally watchful. He’s now standing on the edge of his roof, almost pacing. His brawny arms are crossed, taut with tension. Whenever he looks towards Jarrik, his expression seems to darken of its own volition. He stands like a woethrask on a taut leash, as if he’d charge at the caravan master if Jarrik weren’t in mixed company. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane gives a murmur of acknowledgement. “Does he ever mention why he came here?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“He doesn’t know,” Nelea replies softly.</span></p>
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<span class="cat-links"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/" rel="category tag">Teller of Fortunes</a></span><h2 class="entry-title"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/04/03/teller-of-fortunes-2-22-you-pull-smeerps-out-of-a-hat/" rel="bookmark">Teller of Fortunes 2-22: You pull smeerps out of a hat!</a></h2> </header>
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<span class="posted-on"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/04/03/teller-of-fortunes-2-22-you-pull-smeerps-out-of-a-hat/" rel="bookmark"><time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-04-03T09:15:53-04:00">April 3, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-04-02T23:17:23-04:00">April 2, 2020</time></a></span><span class="byline"> <span class="author vcard"><a class="url fn n" href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/author/estridemail/">Phoenix & Rook</a></span></span> </div><!-- .entry-meta -->
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<p><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/31/teller-of-fortunes-2-21-join-the-mad-kings-joust/">< Previous </a> <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2019/10/03/the-teller-of-fortunes-1-a-bit-of-bloodroot-in-your-shoe/"> Beginning</a>| <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/lore/">Lore</a> |<a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/">Current</a> Next ></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The next day begins with a pretty typical thing for Ane: fortune telling. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">It’s the last day for the caravan to wring the last few copper bits it can from the local populace, and Ane spends a solid day’s work behind her table with its (still somewhat paint-spattered) brocade cloth. The readings seem to blur together for her — a few minor lordlings on a lark, badgering her for news of their impending fortunes. A gambler or two asking about their next big score. A few shady types with marks on their temples where masks usually hang, probing her for intrigue and forewarnings of betrayals to come. It’s not an outstanding day’s work, by any means, but it’s a thorough and steady one. </span><span style="font-weight:400;"> She nets nine miters, nine scutes; a tidy sum, and the last from a city for some time.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Once it’s over, Ane is exceedingly pleased to pack up her tent and put S’varga behind her. The caravan has money, guards, and enough supplies to get them through the next leg of their journey, so the sooner she puts some potentially very dissatisfied customers of “Doctor Lartimus” behind her, the better.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">When Ane steps out of her tent, she sees that everyone’s gathering up for their last meal in the city. There’s not enough time for one last day of carousing, so everyone is faithfully assembling at the foodline and eating by firelight. While Ane is generally unaffected by the darkness of the tunnels, the other members of the troupe all flock to the nearest light source. It lends things a rather warm, conspiratorial atmosphere, with people packed in tighter clusters than usual. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Today, Aedas the strong man is the one doling out food — and massive portions of it. It’s a pity that he’s never had much sense for flavor. On the bright side, he hands out a pretty protein-heavy meal, full of boiled-down plants and fibers known to strengthen the body. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">When Ane approaches at the front of the line, he shovels her portion onto a bowl with a smaller bowl, fumbling with the utensils in his massive hands. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Hey Ane, got the gud stuff for ya!” He chimes, smiling to his eyes.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Thanks, Aedas!” She replies brightly, as she accepts the bowl. Even if Aedas didn’t err deeper on the side of nutrition rather than flavor, it’s nice to not have to worry about Brair’s peppers. She turns, bowl and spoon in hand, to find a place to sit — the clusters of cravanners seem warm and jovial enough, satisfied with a successful trip, but it might be nice to take advantage of her ability to see in the dark and find a quiet place to relax…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">When Ane arrives, Jiselmo the actor is in the midst of retelling his tales of the madcap adventures of King Fweep-Fweep and the joust, in usual form. It seems like the story of a small creature enchanting the caravanners gets a little more embroidery with every retelling; this time, the wagons get decorated a little more brightly, and a cadre of charming caravan-followers carry Jiselmo away from the ersatz tiltyard on their shoulders while cheering.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Nelea the animal tamer shakes her head and mutters, “You really shouldn’t encourage such things, Jiselmo. Someone could have been hurt.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Oh, it’s fine! That’s what the pillows are for.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Korin the straight-man covers his face with his palm, and mutters, “They were still poles being thrust at alosin-velocity, Jiselmo…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Well, the ground is soft als– oh, hello Ane!” He breaks, waving at her with his spoon. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane takes a seat, though she somewhat regrets it — of </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">course </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">Jiselmo would have plenty to say about being the master of ceremonies to a tiny fweep-king. She gives the group a chagrined smile and a wave of her spoon before setting to eating her dinner.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">It doesn’t last much longer. While the conversation continues (and seems unaware of Ane’s role), it soon comes to a swift stop. Looming at the other edge of the group is the klorrian magician, a rather rare figure at these fireside gatherings. He’s always a gloomy picture of a man, with long, thin black hair and a gaunt, disapproving face. All this paired with his ostentatiously-dyed robes and air of importance. The look is only broken up by a pair of floppy lop-ears that stick out of his pocket, each thick with cotton-like tufts. His steps are quiet, but the sound of a smeerp munching a carrot is not. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The moment he steps up, silverware clinks and conversation grinds to a halt. It doesn’t seem deliberate; his severe, stoic presence has a talent for throwing a wrench into any conversation. As Jiselmo puts it, he’s the “doorstopper of chatter, a paper-weight for words, a muzzle on the snout of pleasant company, and a condom on the cock of social grace.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Despite this colorful description, Jiselmo is the first to speak. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Ah, hello Vozhik! Come to rejoin our delightful company?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The klorr glowers, staring down his nose. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I come to address your idiocy yesterday. Your indiscretions and frippery rub you against forces you’d best not tamper with,” he cautions, as his sharp ears lower gravely.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Jiselmo smirks, waggishly swaying from side-to-side. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Oh? Afraid I’ll pull one of your smeerps out of my arse and put you out of a job?” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">This earns Jiselmo an elbow-jostle to the rib from Korin, who adds, “It’s all right now. No one was hurt.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The klorr responds with a chilly, fanged smile. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“You don’t even recall that you were influenced? Hah. It’s no surprise, given your lack of mental acuity.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“It was an </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">accident, </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">Vozhik,” Ane interjects firmly, “Nobody was hurt. Besides, it won’t happen again.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The klorr shifts his gaze to her, raising an eyebrow. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Oh? I would hope so. Let us hope this is the only force you house that’s beyond your ken.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Nelea bristles.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“You mind your words, Vozhik. You are with the caravan, true, but that gives you no license to insult as you please. One more jibe like that, and I’ll have you out of our circle on your ear.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The magician reels back for a second, chastened. Somehow, even such a mild threat makes him wilt and balk. He quickly regains his stiff posture, and utters a dour “Hmph.” Then, more cautiously, he adds, “Just a warning. We travel in a complicated world with troublesome forces…” His gaze shifts subtly back to Ane. “A </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">fae</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> mood can cause all sorts of problems.” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Then, he promptly turns to leave with a swish of his voluminous cape, which he wears literally all the time. His mysterious exit, however, is ruined by the way he tucks a hand into his shirt pocket to anxiously stroke his smeerp’s ears. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“</span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">You pull smeerps out of a hat!” </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane calls out sourly after him, </span><span style="font-weight:400;">to his swiftly-retreating back</span><span style="font-weight:400;">. There are some people who she would accept this admonishment from — Dynkala, naturally, and maybe the medicine-seller, Vaidna — but the pick-a-card-any-card guy does not number among them, however tall and glowery he may be. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Void,” she mutters, turning back to Jiselmo and the others, “Is he </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">always</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> on?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Regrettably, yes,” Korin replies sourly. “I don’t know how he walks around with all those smeerps up-him.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Oh, it’s important for some of the </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">dark magical super-spooky arts</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">,” Jiselmo adds in, in a suitably, theatrically eerie tone. “He might need to conjure ribbons or saw pretty ladies in an emergency.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I worry for the smeerps,” Nelea says quietly. “It must be hard to breathe…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane shakes her head. It isn’t that she doesn’t have her own concerns about the fweep-fweep — far from it — but the </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">last</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> thing she needs is to be scolded like an unruly toddler who left their toys out where someone could trip over them. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Damn near killed my appetite,” she mutters glumly. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vila (of the triplets) side-whispers, “You should see his dirty wagon… It’s a real warren in there, not made for a person.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">This earns Vila an immediate elbow-strike from the other two on each side. She utters a small grunt of surprise and a mutter of protest to the oddly silent Wila and Zila.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">In the distance, Vozhik heads off toward the edge of the camp. He’s grabbed up a torch, casting his stark features in half-shadow. He wanders out and greets three figures approaching from the city — the caravan master among them.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">As Vozhik stops and palavers with Jarrik, the light of his torch falls upon the two newcomers. One is a ruptured silhouette at first, then resolves into a callosian covered in long, lumpy protrusions almost like the back of a Skrajjic rock-lizard. It’s almost uncomfortable to look at, the way his clothes appear to warp to fit his distorted shape. The weight of the crags along his shoulders and back seems to hold him down, forcing his posture to stoop low.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The other is… a collection of birds? A flock of massive, twitching wings? And yet it stands in the vague shape of a man. It’s hard to tell whether there’s a person beneath them.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Jiselmo, rubbernecking all the while, speaks for the rest as attention falls upon this spectacle.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“… What the fuck?”</span></p>
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<span class="posted-on"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/31/teller-of-fortunes-2-21-join-the-mad-kings-joust/" rel="bookmark"><time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-03-31T07:50:21-04:00">March 31, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-04-06T16:49:44-04:00">April 6, 2020</time></a></span><span class="byline"> <span class="author vcard"><a class="url fn n" href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/author/estridemail/">Phoenix & Rook</a></span></span> </div><!-- .entry-meta -->
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<p><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/26/teller-of-fortunes-2-20-escape-the-tatter-men/">< Previous </a> <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2019/10/03/the-teller-of-fortunes-1-a-bit-of-bloodroot-in-your-shoe/"> Beginning</a>| <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/lore/">Lore</a> |<a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/">Current</a> <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/04/02/teller-of-fortunes-2-22-you-pull-smeerps-out-of-a-hat">Next ></a></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight:400;">When Ane returns to the camp, there’s quite a commotion around one end. People have gathered in a large, oblong circle, faces turned expectantly toward the center. The din of chatter raises high on the air, and alosins chuff loudly.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">There also appear to be… banners? At least, Ane’s reasonably certain that the hanging clothes were </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">intended </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">to look like banners. An even more motley collection has been draped all over what was </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">probably </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht the knife thrower’s wagon. Then, up top, a seat of some sort has been placed there.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht’s wagon looks like a very odd nucleus for the whole thing, really. </span><span style="font-weight:400;"><br />
</span><span style="font-weight:400;">And it all has a certain air about it.</span><span style="font-weight:400;"><br />
</span><span style="font-weight:400;">You might call it “whimsy.” </span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Oh.</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Oh no.</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">What did the fweep-fweep do now? She’d thought Vasht was safe — if there’s one word she’d never use to describe him, it’s “whimsical.” But now there’re banners? And a group? With tables? She drops the things she’d collected from the undercity, a chair leg and hound’s skull, in her haste to go see what level of fuckery the caravan and her mind-controlling pet abomination have gotten up to in her absence.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">As it turns out, they got up to quite a lot.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane has to push past the throng of observers, which is growing thicker by the minute. As soon as she finds a spot with a low shoulder, she darts her gaze around…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The first thing she spies is a scraped-bare strip of land, save for a rope fence running down the middle. When her gaze pans left, she sees… an alosin, though that’s hardly the strange part. </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">On</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> the alosin is Brair, wearing a sheet as a sash and a large, ashen pot upon the top of his head. It sits jauntily on his brow, oddly complimenting the stark, firm expression on his bronzed face. Today, the fire-slinging callosian wields something else instead: a tall, wooden pole with a pillow tied around one end. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Then, Ane pans her gaze to the right…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">There’s another alosin, and this one is carrying </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht.</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> He has a curtain slung about his chest, in a most barbaric fashion (if barbarians had a thing for Valistean lace). His many sharp, sweeping tattoos paint a rather ominous picture; this, complete with the kettle perched upon his head, make him the perfect “dark knight.” He’s wielding a pillow-spear similar to Brair’s. He also wears an expression of grim determination, though there’s a glimmer of chagrin in his eyes. It’s the look of a man that’s gotten himself into something, knows he looks ridiculous, and just has to commit to the bit.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">And lording over the center, in the midst of the “banners” lining Vasht’s roof, is an old oaken chair, perched imperiously right in the middle. Upon it sits a certain round, fuzzy creature, with an air of comical gravitas. Its little beak-mouth is set firmly, as if it too is pretending to take this all very seriously. It’s not bouncing or fweep’ing at the moment, but it nearly vibrates with an excited sort of energy. Its barely contained glee is almost childlike, under its veneer of pretend authority. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">It also has a small, yellow prop-crown on top of its head.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">It is King Fweep-Fweep the Whimsical. This is his joust.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane groans to herself immediately before she begins to try to force her way through the crowd. Brair and Vasht can have their pillow-fight for the moment — she is going to retrieve that fweep-fweep before someone loses an eye (or an ear, or a wing).</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">As Ane makes her way towards the wagon, the festivities begin to unfurl in earnest.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Jiselmo, standing in the center of the lanes, steps out wearing the full costume of a royal herald. He even has a long, brass horn with a flag on the end to match. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Hear ye, hear ye,” he calls out, “We gather today for the match of a lifetime! Today, two knights shall do battle for their honor. In the blue corner…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">He flings an arm out in the direction of Brair.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“SER BRAIR! Honorable knight of flame, lord of the pints, baron of the exploding wagon!”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Cheers erupt while Brair trots his alosin in a small circle, pounding his chest and waving his spear.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“And in the red corner… SER VASHT! The wicked dark knight, lord of edges, slayer of boards and fruits alike!”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht receives a mixture of cheers and boos, as villains are wont to, though they’re all mixed in with laughter. Vasht, for his part, foregoes the grandstanding and instead raises his spear and points it towards Brair — a challenge!</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Jiselmo cuts in, “Once more, simple rules! A knight who is lanced must remove their sash. A sashless-knight who is struck is DEFEATED! And if a knight falls off his alosin, he is both DEFEATED and VERY SILLY…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane gently pinches the bridge of her nose. She knew the little thing was persuasive, but </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">this</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">. Half of the participants here have to be indulging it for fun. There’s no way something the size of an appo and a half could turn the caravan into </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">this.</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Hey!” She calls sternly up to the fweep-fweep, “Either you come down, or I’m coming up.” </span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Somehow.</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Fwip fwip fwip fwiiip fwip… fwep fwep…” The thing squeaks and whistles, babbling on, as if imitating a person’s speech. It doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to Ane. In fact… is it </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">acting like a king? </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">The crowd is silent, as if it’s officiating the start of the battle.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Fuip… fwep… FWEEP!”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Cheers erupt as the alosins huff, scuffing their feet on the dirt. Then in a burst of activity, they LEAP! Both knights charge at each other valiantly, Brair in his ash-pot helm, Vasht wearing his kettle. The thunderous sound of galloping alosins fills the air, as a large dust cloud kicks up behind their springing legs.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The fighters lean low, gaining swiftness, ersatz pillow-spears held tightly to their sides and braced in brawny arms. The alosins leap with their heads low, charging for speed. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">There’s a moment of silent suspense.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Then, in a flurry of motion, the men pass and the spears flash into action! Brair goes for a very straightforward charge, but Vasht… oh, he’s a </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">dark knight. </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">And being the deft fighter he is, he ducks aside at the last second and thrusts his spear! His muscled arms tighten with tension as he </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">swings </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">his ‘weapon,’ striking Brair straight in the stomach. He takes the full weight of the alosin’s charge, coupled with the deftness of Vasht’s strike.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Bwaaaahfuck!” Brair cries out, sent sailing off the (in hindsight, not-all-that-fast) alosin. He falls back while it charges onward, and he collides into the spongy tunnel ground with a </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">thump.</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">At the other end of the lanes, Vasht brings his alosin to a stop. He then plants the haft-end of his spear in the ground, stands tall, and puffs out his mighty tattooed chest. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“SER VASHT IS VICTORIOUS! A DECISIVE BLOW,” Jiselmo calls out, frantic with excitement.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">He then toots his brass horn to make it official, while Brair sneakily wanders off to find a pint for his bruised pride and aching rear. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Right. I’m coming up,” Ane says, as she begins attempting to find hand- and footholds among all of the clothing hanging from Vasht’s wagon. If he ever did manage to find the time to do his shirt laundry, he’s going to have to do it again — the kicked-up dust from the alosins has not done them any favors. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">When she arrives at the top, the little fweep-fweep is looking quite fat and sassy in his “throne.” It’s currently rocking back and forth, cheeks pooched, looking very satisfied with itself. It’s still wearing the little fake crown, though it’s slid over its little tufted head at an angle.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Down below, the aforementioned actor is now busking the camp followers, guards and passers-by that clumped around this event. He moves among the thunderous cheer and applause, shouting. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Thank you, thank you! We accept appreciation in the form of CURRENCY and LOTS OF BOOZE. Brair seems a bit sore, so we won’t be getting more </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">any time soon!”</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“</span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Jiselmo!” </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane shouts down to him in horror. It’s bad enough the fweep-fweep is responsible for this without him capitalizing on it for liquor and coin. “What the Voi– Alright, you know what?” Perched atop Vasht’s wagon beside the makeshift throne, she reaches out to pluck the crown from the tiny creature’s head. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Fwep fuip fep… Fip f– FEEP!” It cheeps, eyes wide with alarm as its divested of its authority. Almost immediately, the fweep-fweep seems aware that the jig is up. Rather than attempt to reason with Ane or feign sleep, it instead lets out a big, gaseous “FWIPPPT!” and jets off into the nearest piece of laundry — a pair of Vasht’s britches — to hide.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane holds the tiny crown, pinched between thumb and forefinger.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“No crown, no kingdom. Those’re the rules,” she admonishes the fweep-fweep. For now, she allows it to hide — from the sound of things, whatever ensorcelment it worked seems to be breaking, giving her an opportunity to survey the damages from up on high.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Jiselmo rides out of this place on a tide of money and beer, taking the crowd with him to boisterously retell this event around a fire and a barrel of something brown and potent. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">This leaves Vasht standing in the middle of the field, contemplating his life choices. Furrowing his brow, he plucks the kettle off of his head and throws it to the soil with a clatter. He turns to the alosin, giving him a one-eyed look of sympathy. Then he looks up towards the fweep-fweep. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht rubs the side of his head, thoughts clearing, and then he sees Ane. His face goes slightly pale. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ah, yes. This is what social mortality feels like. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“</span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">What</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">,” Ane says, arms held wide in bewilderment, “</span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Happened?</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She knows what happened. The same thing that got her to dress the fweep-fweep in makeup and jewelry and a tiny stone slipshell hat happened. What she does </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">not </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">know is how the creature escaped its cage and managed to affect </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">the entire caravan</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The dark knight, Ser Vasht, stands dumbfounded. He doesn’t respond immediately, instead tossing his pillow-spear aside and crossing his arms behind his back. It’s like some last-ditch attempt to retain the scraps of his dignity. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">He calls back up to Ane, “Your </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">‘king’</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">… and also, Jiselmo!” His expression firms. “Yeah, Jiselmo’s definitely to blame for at least part of this…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Yes,” Ane says with a slow nod and the tone of voice one might use to ask a small child why their mittens are currently floating in the privy, “But how did the ‘king’ get from safely inside a cage to… to…” She makes a flailing gesture toward Vasht’s britches, which are currently trembling in a perplexing fashion.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Rather than answer immediately, Vasht wanders aside and gathers up the thing’s cage. Its door swings open tellingly. With it in hand, Vasht spreads his rows of wings, catches the air, and flaps his way up to meet Ane on the roof of his wagon.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Once he’s safely landed, he dusts off his shoulder.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Well, I first meant to keep it in my wagon… but when I saw it, it did </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">something.”</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> He sighs, staring at the wriggling pair of pants. “It kept giving strange ideas, and some would’ve wrecked my things.” He coughs. “Important things. Keepsakes. So…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">He makes a vague, spinning gesture with his fingertip.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“I took it outside, it got ahold of Brair and convinced him to open the cage.” He explains all this in a rather careful, measured fashion, as if that can make the result a bit less silly.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane rubs a spot in the center of her forehead. With her free hand, she waves at the tiny, quivering pile of underpants and fweep.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“So it’s Brair’s fault, you’re saying,” she concludes. “At any rate, it doesn’t matter. Just… Put it back in the cage so I can get it somewhere where it can do less damage, I’m not going to go rooting through your underthings.” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Well, not his entirely. I should’ve kept him from opening it, though my back was turned. After that, he said he ought to take care of it, feed it some of his booze…” Vasht goes on, walking towards the pair of waggling trousers. He takes it by the legs, positions the waist at the mouth of the box, and begins to gently shake the garment. Soon the fweep-fweep pops out, tumbling into the cage, whereupon Vasht shuts the small door.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">He takes in a breath, and continues, “So, we got into an argument… Jiselmo strolled by, and suggested we decide it with a contest. Then, a while later, I look up and </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">this</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> is happening,” he says, gesturing towards the scene laid out beneath the two of you. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane shakes her head as she takes the cage, muttering to herself.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Can’t go anywhere, Animus alive… At any rate, thanks for keeping an eye on it. Sorry about your laundry. And,” she nods toward his ‘knightly’ getup, “All that.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Mm, might want to keep it hidden when you’re away,” he agrees, gruffly running a hand across his cheek. “Seems only to do that when people see it.” </span><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht then shrugs a shoulder, and smirks with chagrin. “Well, I’d say you’re welcome, but I’m more sorry that I let it start a monarchy. And knight me, I guess.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">A faint grin tugs at the edge of her lips, in turn. “A tiny tyranny, complete with bloodsports. Out of curiosity, though — why did your laundry end up all over the outside of your wagon?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Seeing Ane’s smile seems to lessen his embarrassment, somewhat, and he finds himself doing the same. He lets out a theatrical sigh, and plucks one of his scarves off of his wagon’s roof. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“If I had to guess? The critter needed heraldry, and somehow Jiselmo knew that. So while we got ready, he went around throwing my clothes everywhere.” He furrows his brow at the scarf, and adds, “Also, they were nearby… I’d just finished washing them.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She pulls her lips inward, pressing them tightly together in her teeth to keep from laughing outright. Instead, she manages a stiff nod and a subtle quiver of her shoulders before she turns away from Vasht (and his “heraldry”) and begins the process of climbing down the dangling shirts, belts, and trousers.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">As she does so, he leans forward and aims a few pokes at her side. “I </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">see</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> your giggle fit,” he accuses. “Making a getaway with your tiny trouser bandit,” he adds, watching Ane </span><span style="font-weight:400;">flinch to avoid being poked as she </span><span style="font-weight:400;">clambers down his wagon. He hops down himself shortly after.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Hey! Careful — some of us don’t have wings. Or a head harder than that kettle to break a fall with,” she chastises him as she disembarks from a muslin shirt. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">He crosses his bare arms, regarding her dryly from the bottom. “Well, I can help with that. There’s a spare kettle over there, for your safety.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Wouldn’t fit without crumpling my ears. Anyway, thanks again, </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Ser Knight.</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“At your service. Or something,” he agrees, offering a sardonic half-bow.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">With the fweep-fweep safely in its cage, she makes her way back to where she deposited the hound’s skull and chair leg she found earlier. The chair leg is useless to her now — let it sit here and raise questions in whatever hapless wanderer finds it next — but she has a lot of soaking and cleaning to do before the skull is in a keepable condition.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Which means, unfortunately for him, she needs to bother Brair (and his wounded pride).</span></p>
<p> </p>
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<span class="cat-links"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/" rel="category tag">Teller of Fortunes</a></span><h2 class="entry-title"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/26/teller-of-fortunes-2-20-escape-the-tatter-men/" rel="bookmark">Teller of Fortunes 2-20: Escape the Tatter-Men</a></h2> </header>
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<span class="posted-on"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/26/teller-of-fortunes-2-20-escape-the-tatter-men/" rel="bookmark"><time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-03-26T07:44:19-04:00">March 26, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-03-31T01:45:35-04:00">March 31, 2020</time></a></span><span class="byline"> <span class="author vcard"><a class="url fn n" href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/author/estridemail/">Phoenix & Rook</a></span></span> </div><!-- .entry-meta -->
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<p><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/23/teller-of-fortunes-2-19-the-theatric-assassin-and-lost-traveler">< Previous </a> <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2019/10/03/the-teller-of-fortunes-1-a-bit-of-bloodroot-in-your-shoe/"> Beginning</a>| <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/lore/">Lore</a> |<a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/">Current</a> <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/31/teller-of-fortunes-2-21-join-the-mad-kings-joust">Next ></a></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">(Continued directly from prior entry)</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">There’s that vague sense of warmth resting in her palm, much as it was with the slipshell. The face of the loothine, once solemn, now seems… steady? Determined? Perhaps it even shows a sort of welcome, a silent acceptance. Gone is that sense of frenzied despair, of feeling lost and out of place in the world of men. Its eyes show not peace, but resolve.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">A howl rings out, bouncing off the cave walls. The voice is thick, proud, and haunting as it echoes from places unseen. All at once, the leaves of the underworld seem to unfurl. The spring bubbles with life, and a steady mist recedes from its shores.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The corpse of the loothine also seems to change, though only subtly… Whereas before its paws were in the midst of hurried digging, now they are at rest. Even more strangely, the claw-bones are now folded over-top of one another. The vacant skull rests upon them, as if pillowing its head beside the warmth of the spring. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The change has a dizzying, dreamlike quality, enhanced by the steam of the spring. Ane is tempted to remain there, to soak in more of the sense of calm and resolve permeating the very air of the place, but now is not the time. The assassin and the rag-men are still making their perambulations on the roof and in the streets beyond, and, however serene this place may seem right now, it isn’t</span><i><span style="font-weight:400;"> safe</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She casts a hum over the resting loothine. The carcass seems relaxed now, but something seems wrong about separating it from the carving. Ane can’t take an entire hound corpse with her, though…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Moments later, she begins navigating her way back through the ragged streets, this time kept company by an emerald carving and a loothine skull on the end of a stick. </span><span style="font-weight:400;">The shrub-stem she pressed into service is a bit wobbly, but it works well enough. </span><span style="font-weight:400;">With luck, it also makes her look deranged enough to be left alone — there’s definitely no way she can go scaling any walls with a stick in her hand. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">However mad she may seem, the path still leads straight through half a dozen rag-men. As she approaches the mouth of the alley, walking in the open, the ones with the abstract masks press back behind the others. The jagged-marked ones step forward, their shasii bodies almost unrecognizable by emaciation. They bar the path, and one or two even crouch low, placing their hands to the dirt… as if they’re readying to pounce.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">They shout and growl in voices as ragged as their masks. It’s in some foreign language — guttural, profane, thick with malice.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane inhales a deep, tense, hissing breath.</span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Looks like it didn’t work.</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She can’t make out what they say, but their postures are unmistakable. She stands there, with her skull on a stick, humming over the seething group barring her path. Now what? She has no weapons, unless she plans on hitting someone with a loothine head. She has no magic. She doesn’t even speak their language.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane squares her shoulders and marshals her nerve… a</span><span style="font-weight:400;">nd flees into one of the shacks. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Outside is the sound of scuffling feet, shouts, and frenzied puffing breaths. The rag-faces dash after her, coming to a skidding stop outside the broken shack.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The room is dark, but Ane can see easily… though it’s a lot to take in on short notice. There’s a broken-down wooden chair, a tattered cot with moldy down, a few earthenware pots, and a gaping hole in the wall on the other side of the room. There’s a door into this place, too, but it seems broken beyond use, jammed into its frame with rust and grime. There’s also a book, some copper silverware, and a rotten hunk of meat covered in both flies </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">and</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> walks.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane takes as little time to scout her surroundings as she can get away with before she lunges for the first available opening — she can worry about navigating her way back up afterward, </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">if</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> she manages to lose the group. As she rushes past the mildewed, decaying contents of the shack, she throws whatever she passes behind her to slow them up. Pots, the chair, anything her hands pass near enough to grab flies behind her into a shattered heap. The chair seems to fall apart as soon as she touches it, and her hand comes away still holding a single splintered chair leg with a crude, rusty nail hooking out from one end.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She has a sneaking suspicion she should keep it.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">There are curses and crashes behind her, as the first rag-man dashes in and topples over the chair. His emaciated body is sent crashing into the wall, while two others push in past him, still in pursuit.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The next room is equally bare, though it features an old larder filled with garbage and an earthenware pitcher of sour wine. There isn’t even a hole this time.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Voirrh- damin!” The man behind her snarls, dashing into the room, cursing in some bastard cant of a language. His bony hands are raised, groping like claws, giving only a second to react.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">And the pitcher of sour wine flies behind her, accompanied by a soft whistle of air over its mouth. </span><span style="font-weight:400;">He takes it on the jaw, shattering the poor pottery as he goes crashing backwards. In the moment it buys her, </span><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane charges at the far wall — she doesn’t think she’ll be able to crash through it, but it’ll be something to get her back up against when more of them pour through the doorway.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Oh, nope, nevermind. She does crash through it, intending to or otherwise. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Construction is pretty shoddy down here. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;"> She finds herself stumbling into the next shanty, now a fair ways past where the chase began. More shouting comes from behind, where the remaining rag-men are forced to clamber past the first two. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">At least, all that </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">did</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> chase her…</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The loothine figure pulses in Ane’s hand, and she feels a moment of clarity: </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">olfactory </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">clarity. She can track the trails of the unwashed, downtrodden assailants as if their scent were wisps of smoke upon clean air. One of those wisps leads straight ahead, through the gap into the next shack… There a mass of it is huddled down, hiding behind the wall, lying in wait.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">To Ane’s left is the door back out into the alley, merely a square of boards resting on one hinge. She doesn’t smell anyone out there, for the moment. </span><span style="font-weight:400;">This is fortunate in many ways, as having an enhanced sense of smell down here is, at best, a mixed blessing.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She trusts in the little emerald carving and whatever strangeness it seems to have wrought in her. There will be time to investigate it further later. </span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Maybe with the slipshell and some puffroot, </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">she thinks to herself in a moment of grim humor.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">For now, Ane rushes at the door. She’ll be able to move more quickly out there, if nothing else.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">When Ane dashes out, she has at least ten feet in both directions of clear alleyway. Behind her, towards the grove, there are two more of the assailants. They’re the ones with the crescents and helices about their masks, esoteric and brutal markings. Instead of giving chase, they’ve instead crouched down and begun to chant. If it’s a language, it’s not something Ane recognizes.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane has a clear line towards somewhere that isn’t this smear of a street</span><span style="font-weight:400;">, and she goes for it.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Her pursuers are no match for her relative health and fitness,</span> <span style="font-weight:400;">and even as they scrabble after her, they quickly fall behind. As Ane rounds the corner, she can hear a sharp, blunt </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">crack. </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">As soon as the echo fades, there’s another sharp strike. First one, then another, and another… Five in total.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">It seems they, too, have trouble surviving on these streets. And their friend up on the rooftops just received the perfect distraction to pick them all off, one by one by one…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Soon after, Ane is left with a moment to breathe. She stands safe in some alleyway, carrying the skull, the loothine figure, and a broken chair leg. The rest of the city is now open to her, and as sure as she saw the scents of the rag-faces, she can see her own as well. </span><span style="font-weight:400;">For now, though, she doubles over to catch her breath. While the rag-faced men hadn’t caught up with her, a couple of days of puffroot smoking certainly </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">has</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">. It’s telling that they weren’t able to outrun her — they must be even worse off than they look.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Once she’s pulled herself together, eased her burning lungs, and slowed her hammering heart, Ane begins to make her way ever upward, toward the brighter (and less fragrant) parts of the city. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">After some long walking and some deep sniffing, Ane soon finds her way back up to the first atrium of S’varga. It feels like a wholly different city, with all the towering edifices, stunning vistas, and artistic reliefs that were once expected. Unlike the third or fourth atrium far below, this one seems far more interested in catering to a wanderer’s whims. There’s another market just down the road, with many stalls carrying food and produce… Then there’s a plaza off to the left, with a number of tunnel-stone storefronts all carved side-by-side. There’s also the occasional public house, fine dining, and the rare puffroot-ery.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Unlike the deprived lands below, “this” S’varga is fully willing to cater to a paying customer’s needs. </span><span style="font-weight:400;">Unfortunately, Ane has no coin, and only a carved loothine hound and a dirty skull to show for her trouble. She gives the plaza a look of scorn mixed with longing, as she turns to head out of the city and back to the caravan.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">It’s probably for the best. Ane might look a tad out of place with her skull-on-a-stick anyway.</span></p>
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<span class="posted-on"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/24/teller-of-fortunes-2-19-theatric-thugs-and-the-lost-traveler/" rel="bookmark"><time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-03-24T07:12:03-04:00">March 24, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-03-24T00:43:54-04:00">March 24, 2020</time></a></span><span class="byline"> <span class="author vcard"><a class="url fn n" href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/author/estridemail/">Phoenix & Rook</a></span></span> </div><!-- .entry-meta -->
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<p><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/19/teller-of-fortunes-2-18-what-the-void-is-that/">< Previous </a> <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2019/10/03/the-teller-of-fortunes-1-a-bit-of-bloodroot-in-your-shoe/"> Beginning</a>| <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/lore/">Lore</a> |<a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/">Current</a> <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/23/teller-of-fortunes-2-20-escape-the-tatter-men">Next ></a></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">(Exploration of S’varga – Continued directly from prior entry)</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The shacks sit so close together, their roofs form a slipshod walkway of their own — albeit one so treacherous-looking, even the rag-veiled men seem to avoid it. Even so, a shadow moves about up there as well… </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane takes her chances with the shadow. The streets — if streets they can be called — are definitely full of the gaunt rag-men, and the shacks very well may be as well. Finding a way through them could easily be disorienting, too, even with the cry of the thing she’s following to lead her. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She digs her fingers into the shattered stone of one of the walls of a building, seeking hand- and toeholds as she begins pulling herself up to their patchy, sinking roofs.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">As Ane peers over the top of the roof, she finds herself tucked behind a stack of old, rotten crates. This affords temporary cover, as she catches sight of that shadow that was darting about…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">It’s huikkaran. He’s clinging to one of the walls of the small cavern, positioned up from the roofs slightly as if to gain a vantage point on the rag-men below. His lithe, nimble body is covered in dark-colored leather, knives gleaming at his belt beside a wicked-looking blackjack. A large, slick bronze mask, tapering back like the beak of some wading bird, covers his face. It makes his head look almost comically long and wispy, with an exaggerated expression of glee about the elderly lips of the mask.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">He seems to almost twitch a little, as if startling at every sound. Whatever he’s doing here, he seems very jumpy. If he’s seen Ane yet, he hasn’t made any sort of move from his perch, clinging to the wall with two hands and a foot.</span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">An assassin?</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Perhaps he’ll leave her be if she’s quiet enough and doesn’t get in his way — he seems to be keeping an eye out for </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">someone</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">, and she highly doubts it’s her. Still, she doesn’t like the look of that blackjack. She keeps him in her sights as she cautiously makes her way toward the howl, careful to avoid the loose nails and soft, sagging, rotten portions of the roofs in her path.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">As she makes her way, the huikkaran clearly seems to be watching her. The dark eyeholes in his mask track her movement, step by step… She makes steady progress, soon halfway to the end of the cavern. As she passes parallel to the watcher, her foot nearly catches in a shattered bit of scrap lumber. There’s a slight crunch underfoot, and the man grows tense. His hand darts at once to his belt, hovering over a dagger, shaking with tension like a taut bowstring…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">With a muffled curse, she holds her hands, empty, out at her sides — partially to maintain her balance, partially to show her lack of visible weaponry. Silently, she rues the fact that she didn’t bring a knife or her gurran jaw with her, not that she’d really be able to use either. This roof isn’t very conducive to winning a fight at close quarters, and she can guarantee he knows the terrain better than she does.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The gaze of the watcher is steady. Fortunately, so too is his hand. After a split second of consideration, he averts his gaze back to the rag-faces below. He seems as if he’s been here for quite some time, and has the patience to show for it. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Soon, Ane is able to step past this mess. The cavern beyond the alley seems far more secluded, while the shanties give way to a grove of sorts. There’s a pool of water in the floor, shimmering and steaming with geothermic heat, bubbling up from some unseen source below. All sorts of strange fungi and shrub-plants have gathered around it, clustered together like vagrants around a fire. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">This place is a small, sparse refuge, but a refuge nonetheless.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">As Ane steps forward, she sees the lost traveller.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">There’s a dark shape huddled behind one of the shrubs, its body curled into a crescent. The once smooth, shining scales have long turned dull, while the flesh below has given way to the ravages of decay. Its noble, sharp ears are now just flaps of tattered skin, and its rows of eyes are just portals to a vacant darkness. The snout has withered away down to bone. The jaws, though fleshless, are closed in repose.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">This is not all there is to the scene, however… </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The loothine hound was digging here. Its claws, ragged and chipped, are half-buried into the flesh of the earth. The act seems deliberate, determined, with no hints of frenzied scrabbling in the dirt. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">No, this was no attempt at escape, or a frantic search for food; it was an excavation. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Perhaps it was some last act of hope, or a sort of animal piety. Whatever the case, it seems the long-dead creature found what it sought.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">There, at the center of the shallow hole, is a figure wrought in crudely-carved emerald. It, too, is a loothine hound, though it still carries the firm shape of life and nobility. The edges are rough and primal, though the shape is clear — right down to its trailing spines and three sets of eyes. The statuette glows dimly in some trick of the light, with its head raised, alert… as if it’s waiting.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane has never seen a loothine hound before — not a live one, anyway. Then again, she doesn’t suppose she’s seeing one </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">now.</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> It’s a testament to how far she’s wandered from the rest of S’varga that she’s even stumbled across the carcass of one.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She skirts the steaming pool, kneeling beside the remains of the hound as she reaches to pick up the carved figure. Mud mars some of the rough surface, but it’s easily cleared away with a cautious dip in the pool. Much of the crystalline, hewn-gem quality is lost on her, translucent as it is, but she can feel the call within it pulsing as if it were a live thing.</span></p>
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<span class="cat-links"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/" rel="category tag">Teller of Fortunes</a></span><h2 class="entry-title"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/19/teller-of-fortunes-2-18-what-the-void-is-that/" rel="bookmark">Teller of Fortunes 2-18: What the Void is that?</a></h2> </header>
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<span class="posted-on"><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/19/teller-of-fortunes-2-18-what-the-void-is-that/" rel="bookmark"><time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-03-19T07:02:41-04:00">March 19, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-03-23T22:12:12-04:00">March 23, 2020</time></a></span><span class="byline"> <span class="author vcard"><a class="url fn n" href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/author/estridemail/">Phoenix & Rook</a></span></span> </div><!-- .entry-meta -->
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<p><a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/17/teller-of-fortunes-2-17-the-most-asinine-thing-ive-ever-done/">< Previous </a> <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2019/10/03/the-teller-of-fortunes-1-a-bit-of-bloodroot-in-your-shoe/"> Beginning</a>| <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/lore/">Lore</a> |<a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/category/teller-of-fortunes/">Current</a> <a href="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/2020/03/16/teller-of-fortunes-2-18-what-the-void-is-that">Next ></a></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">There’s a sense of tight tunnels, of running, of diving through holes and burrowing to new places. The world is a vast and colorful thing, and all those colors have </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">scents. </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">There’s a plethora of textures in every grain of soil, every patch of mold, every tunnel-shrub that marks the way… Dashing on all fours, Ane feels the memory of diving further into the depths, perhaps even becoming lost. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The spires of men rise out of a great cavern, swallowing her up, baffling her with so many new smells. Wagon oil, burnt soil, the sweat of toil. It throws her senses into a frenzy, bringing about confusion and distress. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">As Ane drifts slowly out of dreaming, this sense of being lost does remain… like some sort of puppy gone on a long adventure, only to find it’s too big for its fuzzy britches. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">That feeling separates from Ane, though she can smell it on the air… It leads off into S’varga, down through the few stomachs of its connected caverns. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">And that scent, that forlorn call has a color: Emerald. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">When Ane awakens, the dream lingering, she finds herself already dressed for the day. At least, in the sense that clothes are </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">laid across </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">her body, in some cases over the sheets. Though as considerate as this could otherwise be, there’s a problem: It’s an ensemble collected from both her actual clothing stores, as well as the crates of costumes kept nearby. There’s a ruff, a fluffy hat, a pair of curled boots, a rather fetching skirt, all paired with a very garish paisley evening robe.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Nearby, the strange “fweep-fweep” creature is innocently asleep. It’s perched right there upon her lap, nestled against a rather out-of-fashion pocketbag. It seems to have passed out at the scene of the crime.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Fui- fweeweeweeweep… Fuiiiii… Weeweeweeweeep…”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Gree-” Ane begins to say, as the world around her resolves into view again. It’s an odd transition to make, shifting from eyes-that-are-not-hers to herself-without-eyes, and her momentary waking confusion is </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">not helped</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> by the bizarre collection of moth-eaten clothing draped over her as if she were some sort of doll in the hands of a very clumsy and easily distracted child. She plucks gently at the hem of the paisley robe.</span></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight:400;">How?</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">The fweep-fweep doesn’t even have anything to carry things with. How did it manage to drag all of this </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">here?</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> She nudges it gently with the tip of her finger.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Thanks, but I think I’d prefer to dress myself,” she mutters softly.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Fwi wiwiwi wiiiiip…. Fwi wiwi wiiiiiip….” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">It seems to be absolving itself of all responsibility via slumber. As Ane looks at the thing, lumped on her lap as it is, it doesn’t even have arms or legs. Even its quote-unquote “giggle tubes” are currently retracted, giving it the appearance of a semi-mammalian sphere of somnolence.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She gently nudges one puffy cheek with her fingertip. When that doesn’t produce anything but more tiny, squeaky exhalations, she gently shifts it to the other end of the bed so she can get up and begin getting ready for the day.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">As she pulls a shirt over her head, she steals another glance at the fweep-fweep. It’s really a cute little thing, for all of the trouble it’s caused. It really has a talent for getting up to things… </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane catches her lower lip in her teeth as a thought occurs to her. It probably isn’t a good idea to have it ride along in her pocketbag while she goes into S’varga, if only to keep it from shoplifting. She also can’t leave it </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">here</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">, unless she wants to come back to… Ane isn’t even sure what. All of her laundry arranged around a very small tea party. All of her makeup used to draw smiling faces and bug eyes on everything she owns. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">She has a feeling the tiny creature is a creative and efficient architect of nonsense.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Maybe she could find someone willing to keep an eye on it for a little while, long enough for her to investigate the city. Nelea wouldn’t work, she’s far too soft-hearted — besides, she almost let it out of its cage already. The monk is probably busy, and </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">he </span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">was nearly swayed as well. She hums at the sleeping creature, frowning subtly as she thinks. So, </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">who?</span></i></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">A half hour later, Ane raps sharply on the windowsill of Vasht’s wagon.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">There’s a rummaging sound from beyond, complete with various stumbles and small collisions. After a knock, a bump, and a thump, Vasht finally approaches his window. There’s a creak of wood as he pries the window slats open and squints through. His feather-cropped hair is all amess, tossed this way and that. Despite his usual vigilance, Vasht definitely isn’t a morning person. He’s not even fully clothed.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Hmm… Ane? S’methin’ happenin’?” He asks in a lazy, amiable murmur, dulled by a haze of sleepiness. His revealed eye is half-open, and the wing over the other flaps lazily. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane arches a brow.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Rough sleep? I can come back if you need to chase out a guest first,” she offers.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">He shakes his head, and raises a hand to sweep back his hair. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Nah, not rough. Just early,” he says, with a slight, self-effacing smile. He leans forward, propping his forearms on the windowsill. “And why’s it always caravan-followers with you? Been taking your jokes from Jiselmo lately?” He asks, tilting his head. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Ane shrugs. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“It sure as shit isn’t my card-pulling that keeps that bunch hanging around. </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">Anyway</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;">,” she continues, as she raises the small wire cage up to his window, “I wanted to know if you’d watch this for a few hours.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">Vasht looks down, fixing his now-keen gaze upon the cage. Expecting to see a skarrow, or a smeerp, or even some exotic bat, he’s left looking puzzled. As he stares, the creature has dropped its ruse of slumber and instead begun to investigate its surroundings. Its trio of eyes widen like saucers as it takes in all of the possibilities… Vasht, for his part, is unimpressed with the morning.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“The Void is that?” He asks, ruffling the back of his hair. He doesn’t seem at all bothered, though he also makes no secret of how silly the thing looks.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">After a slight delay, he adds, “… And was that a compliment?” He asks, even more baffled. It sounded like one, but perhaps twisted into a backwards figure-eight or even mobius strip.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“No idea!” She says brightly, as she passes the cage through the slats. “Don’t let it give you any suggestions! Good luck! Bye!” </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">And, with a wave, she turns to walk away before he has time to decide he won’t.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“No ide- about which part?” He calls after her, to no avail. Really, he ends up figuring it’s both. The tzuskar lets out a light sigh, then turns his attention to the cage. “Alright, she won’t tell me. What are ya, then?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Fwip fwip fwippa-fwee!” The fweep-fweep replies, hopping and flapping its tube-arms.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight:400;">“Ah, I see. So you’re at least two fwip’s, and maybe a fwee,” he replies, with an air of patient understanding. He then picks up the cage, turns, and disappears into his wagon. It’s time for him to start his day, and if this thing’s going to feature in it, he might as well get on with it.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight:400;">Ane, meanwhile, sets off for the city proper. If her dream is at all accurate, what she’s looking for is going to be somewhere within, albeit off the beaten path. She should’ve brought Jiselmo — he could keep her from the most dangerous parts of the city, at least. With luck, this thing — if it </span><i><span style="font-weight:400;">is</span></i><span style="font-weight:400;"> a thing, in the same way the little slipshell was — is somewhere so forgotten that even S’varga’s organized crime contingents won’t bother with it.</span></p>
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// If the cookie indicates that CCPA does not apply, then bail.
if ( '1---' === usprivacyCookie ) {
return;
}
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maybeCallDoNotSellCallback();
// We're all done, no more processing needed.
return;
}
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var ccpaCookie = cookieLib.getItem( 'ccpa_applies' );
// No CCPA applies cookie found, so we'll need to geolocate if this visitor is from California.
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// only country data -- therefore we can't vary cache on the region.
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request.open( 'GET', 'https://public-api.wordpress.com/geo/', true );
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if ( 200 === this.status ) {
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var region = data.region ? data.region.toLowerCase() : '';
var ccpa_applies = ['california', 'colorado', 'connecticut', 'delaware', 'indiana', 'iowa', 'montana', 'new jersey', 'oregon', 'tennessee', 'texas', 'utah', 'virginia'].indexOf( region ) > -1;
// Set CCPA applies cookie. This keeps us from having to make a geo request too frequently.
setCcpaAppliesCookie( ccpa_applies );
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if ( ccpa_applies ) {
if ( maybeCallDoNotSellCallback() ) {
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setDefaultOptInCookie();
} else {
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setDefaultOptOutCookie();
}
} else {
// CCPA does not apply.
setDefaultNotApplicableCookie();
}
} else {
// Could not geo, so let's assume for now that CCPA applies to be safe.
setCcpaAppliesCookie( true );
if ( maybeCallDoNotSellCallback() ) {
// Do Not Sell link added, so set default opt-in.
setDefaultOptInCookie();
} else {
// Failed showing Do Not Sell link as required, so default to opt-OUT just to be safe.
setDefaultOptOutCookie();
}
}
}
};
// Send the geo request.
request.send();
} else {
// We found a CCPA applies cookie.
if ( ccpaCookie === 'true' ) {
if ( maybeCallDoNotSellCallback() ) {
// Do Not Sell link added, so set default opt-in.
setDefaultOptInCookie();
} else {
// Failed showing Do Not Sell link as required, so default to opt-OUT just to be safe.
setDefaultOptOutCookie();
}
} else {
// CCPA does not apply.
setDefaultNotApplicableCookie();
}
}
} );
};
// Kickoff initialization.
if ( window.defQueue && defQueue.isLOHP && defQueue.isLOHP === 2020 ) {
defQueue.items.push( setupPrivacy );
} else {
setupPrivacy();
}
} )();
</script>
<!-- CCPA [end] -->
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<path d="M9,9h6v6H9V9z M3,9h6V3H3V9z M15,9h6V3h-6V9z M15,21h6v-6h-6V21z M3,21h6v-6H3V21z" />
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<path d="M21.8,8.001c0,0-0.195-1.378-0.795-1.985c-0.76-0.797-1.613-0.801-2.004-0.847c-2.799-0.202-6.997-0.202-6.997-0.202 h-0.009c0,0-4.198,0-6.997,0.202C4.608,5.216,3.756,5.22,2.995,6.016C2.395,6.623,2.2,8.001,2.2,8.001S2,9.62,2,11.238v1.517 c0,1.618,0.2,3.237,0.2,3.237s0.195,1.378,0.795,1.985c0.761,0.797,1.76,0.771,2.205,0.855c1.6,0.153,6.8,0.201,6.8,0.201 s4.203-0.006,7.001-0.209c0.391-0.047,1.243-0.051,2.004-0.847c0.6-0.607,0.795-1.985,0.795-1.985s0.2-1.618,0.2-3.237v-1.517 C22,9.62,21.8,8.001,21.8,8.001z M9.935,14.594l-0.001-5.62l5.404,2.82L9.935,14.594z" />
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</body>
</html>
Sitemap
Кол-во: 0
XML-карта сайта для поисковиков
?
Sitemap.xml помогает поисковику быстрее находить и индексировать страницы. Особенно важен для крупных сайтов и новых страниц, на которые ещё нет входящих ссылок.
Robots.txt не содержит ссылку на карту сайта. Рекомендуется добавить карту сайта и указать ссылку на нее в robots.txt.
Внутренние ссылки
Кол-во: 6
Ссылки на другие страницы своего сайта
?
Внутренние ссылки распределяют ссылочный вес между страницами и помогают поисковику обходить сайт. Пустые анкоры и ссылки на запрещённые robots.txt страницы — типичные ошибки.
Внутренних ссылок на странице 6 оптимально.
Внутренние ссылки не запрещены к индексации в robots.txt.
Показать внутренние ссылки
| Url | Анкор | Состояние | Анализировать |
|---|---|---|---|
|
Home
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<svg class="gridicon" height="20" width="20" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg" viewbox="0 0 20 20"><path clip-rule="evenodd" d="m4 4.5h12v6.5h1.5v-6.5-1.5h-1.5-12-1.5v1.5 10.5c0 1.1046.89543 2 2 2h7v-1.5h-7c-.27614 0-.5-.2239-.5-.5zm10.5 2h-9v1.5h9zm-5 3h-4v1.5h4zm3.5 1.5h-1v1h1zm-1-1.5h-1.5v1.5 1 1.5h1.5 1 1.5v-1.5-1-1.5h-1.5zm-2.5 2.5h-4v1.5h4zm6.5 1.25h1.5v2.25h2.25v1.5h-2.25v2.25h-1.5v-2.25h-2.25v-1.5h2.25z" fill-rule="evenodd"></path></svg>
<span>Subscribe</span>
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<svg class="gridicon" height="20" width="20" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg" viewbox="0 0 20 20" fill="none"><path fill-rule="evenodd" clip-rule="evenodd" d="M16 4.5H4V15C4 15.2761 4.22386 15.5 4.5 15.5H11.5V17H4.5C3.39543 17 2.5 16.1046 2.5 15V3H17.5V12.5H16V4.5ZM5.5 6.5H14.5V8H5.5V6.5ZM5.5 9.5H9.5V11H5.5V9.5ZM12 11H13V12H12V11ZM10.5 9.5H14.5V13.5H10.5V9.5ZM5.5 12H9.5V13.5H5.5V12Z" fill="#008A20"></path><path d="M19.5303 15.0303L15.5 19.0605L12.9697 16.5303L14.0303 15.4697L15.5 16.9395L18.4697 13.9697L19.5303 15.0303Z" fill="#008A20"></path></svg>
<span>Subscribed</span>
|
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| / |
<svg class="gridicon" height="20" width="20" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg" viewbox="0 0 20 20"><path clip-rule="evenodd" d="m4 4.5h12v6.5h1.5v-6.5-1.5h-1.5-12-1.5v1.5 10.5c0 1.1046.89543 2 2 2h7v-1.5h-7c-.27614 0-.5-.2239-.5-.5zm10.5 2h-9v1.5h9zm-5 3h-4v1.5h4zm3.5 1.5h-1v1h1zm-1-1.5h-1.5v1.5 1 1.5h1.5 1 1.5v-1.5-1-1.5h-1.5zm-2.5 2.5h-4v1.5h4zm6.5 1.25h1.5v2.25h2.25v1.5h-2.25v2.25h-1.5v-2.25h-2.25v-1.5h2.25z" fill-rule="evenodd"></path></svg>
<span>Subscribe</span>
|
|
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| / |
<svg class="gridicon" height="20" width="20" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg" viewbox="0 0 20 20" fill="none"><path fill-rule="evenodd" clip-rule="evenodd" d="M16 4.5H4V15C4 15.2761 4.22386 15.5 4.5 15.5H11.5V17H4.5C3.39543 17 2.5 16.1046 2.5 15V3H17.5V12.5H16V4.5ZM5.5 6.5H14.5V8H5.5V6.5ZM5.5 9.5H9.5V11H5.5V9.5ZM12 11H13V12H12V11ZM10.5 9.5H14.5V13.5H10.5V9.5ZM5.5 12H9.5V13.5H5.5V12Z" fill="#008A20"></path><path d="M19.5303 15.0303L15.5 19.0605L12.9697 16.5303L14.0303 15.4697L15.5 16.9395L18.4697 13.9697L19.5303 15.0303Z" fill="#008A20"></path></svg>
<span>Subscribed</span>
|
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Collapse this bar
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Внешние ссылки
Кол-во: 269
Ссылки на сторонние сайты
?
Исходящие внешние ссылки передают часть ссылочного веса на чужие сайты. Ссылки на авторитетные ресурсы безопасны; ссылки на мусорные сайты могут навредить репутации страницы.
Внешних ссылок на странице 269 слишком много. Спрячьте лишние ссылки в тег noindex или атрибут rel='nofollow'!
На странице присутствуют внешние ссылки с пустым анкором: 1!
На странице ссылки с атрибутом rel='nofollow' 2.
Показать первые 100 внешних ссылок
| Url | Анкор | Анализировать |
|---|---|---|
| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Phoenix & Rook Tales
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
About
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Lore
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Stories
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
A Rare Job, Well Done
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
A World Through Shattered Eyes
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
A World Born: The Promise of Fire and Fugue
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Teller of Fortunes
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Uncategorized
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
A Rare Job, Well Done
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
<time class="entry-date published" datetime="2025-02-04T19:51:01-05:00">February 4, 2025</time><time class="updated" datetime="2025-02-14T21:54:02-05:00">February 14, 2025</time>
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Phoenix & Rook
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Fiction
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Health and Human Services
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
horror
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Humor
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Political
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Pulp
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
short story
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Veganism
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Vegetarianism
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Leave a comment
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
<img width="880" height="312" src="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-book-2574236_1280.jpg?w=880&h=312&crop=1" class="attachment-dara-featured-image size-dara-featured-image wp-post-image" alt="" decoding="async" loading="lazy" srcset="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-book-2574236_1280.jpg?w=880&h=312&crop=1 880w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-book-2574236_1280.jpg?w=150&h=53&crop=1 150w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-book-2574236_1280.jpg?w=300&h=106&crop=1 300w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-book-2574236_1280.jpg?w=768&h=272&crop=1 768w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-book-2574236_1280.jpg?w=1024&h=363&crop=1 1024w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 880px) 100vw, 880px" data-attachment-id="50" data-permalink="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/cropped-book-2574236_1280-jpg/" data-orig-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-book-2574236_1280.jpg" data-orig-size="1280,445" data-comments-opened="0" data-image-meta="{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0"}" data-image-title="cropped-book-2574236_1280.jpg" data-image-description="" data-image-caption="" data-large-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cropped-book-2574236_1280.jpg?w=1024">
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Lore
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
A World Through Shattered Eyes
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
<time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-06-09T07:43:00-04:00">June 9, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2021-12-05T08:09:36-05:00">December 5, 2021</time>
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Phoenix & Rook
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
2020
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Blog
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Coronavirus
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
COVID-19
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
fantasy
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Fiction
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Know that you are loved and that your struggle has meaning
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Pandemic
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Prose
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
short story
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
worldbuilding
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Leave a comment
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
<img width="880" height="312" src="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=880&h=312&crop=1" class="attachment-dara-featured-image size-dara-featured-image wp-post-image" alt="" decoding="async" loading="lazy" srcset="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=880&h=312&crop=1 880w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=150&h=53&crop=1 150w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=300&h=106&crop=1 300w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=768&h=273&crop=1 768w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=1024&h=363&crop=1 1024w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 880px) 100vw, 880px" data-attachment-id="563" data-permalink="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/untitled-design-2/" data-orig-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png" data-orig-size="1155,866" data-comments-opened="1" data-image-meta="{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0"}" data-image-title="Untitled design (2)" data-image-description="" data-image-caption="" data-large-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=1024">
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Teller of Fortunes
|
Анализировать url |
| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Teller of Fortunes 2-25: The chopon dung’s important.
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
<time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-04-28T06:33:57-04:00">April 28, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-04-27T20:36:26-04:00">April 27, 2020</time>
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Phoenix & Rook
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Ane
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
dialogue
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Fiction
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Jarrik
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Lurim
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
pim
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
series
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
slice of life
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
story
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
strange
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
surreal
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Teller of Fortunes
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Vasht
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Leave a comment
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
<img width="880" height="312" src="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=880&h=312&crop=1" class="attachment-dara-featured-image size-dara-featured-image wp-post-image" alt="" decoding="async" loading="lazy" srcset="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=880&h=312&crop=1 880w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=150&h=53&crop=1 150w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=300&h=106&crop=1 300w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=768&h=273&crop=1 768w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=1024&h=363&crop=1 1024w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 880px) 100vw, 880px" data-attachment-id="563" data-permalink="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/untitled-design-2/" data-orig-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png" data-orig-size="1155,866" data-comments-opened="1" data-image-meta="{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0"}" data-image-title="Untitled design (2)" data-image-description="" data-image-caption="" data-large-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=1024">
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Teller of Fortunes
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Teller of Fortunes 2-24: Act casual.
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
<time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-04-23T06:13:57-04:00">April 23, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-04-24T23:31:48-04:00">April 24, 2020</time>
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Phoenix & Rook
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Ane
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
dialogue
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
fantasy
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Fiction
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
serial
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Stories
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
story
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Tragic
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Vasht
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Leave a comment
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
<img width="880" height="312" src="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=880&h=312&crop=1" class="attachment-dara-featured-image size-dara-featured-image wp-post-image" alt="" decoding="async" loading="lazy" srcset="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=880&h=312&crop=1 880w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=150&h=53&crop=1 150w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=300&h=106&crop=1 300w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=768&h=273&crop=1 768w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=1024&h=363&crop=1 1024w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 880px) 100vw, 880px" data-attachment-id="563" data-permalink="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/untitled-design-2/" data-orig-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png" data-orig-size="1155,866" data-comments-opened="1" data-image-meta="{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0"}" data-image-title="Untitled design (2)" data-image-description="" data-image-caption="" data-large-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=1024">
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Teller of Fortunes
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Teller of Fortunes 2-23: Most wroth.
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
<time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-04-21T06:02:52-04:00">April 21, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-04-20T22:17:34-04:00">April 20, 2020</time>
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Phoenix & Rook
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Ane
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
dialogue
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
fantasy
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Fiction
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Jarrik
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Jiselmo
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Korin
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Lurim
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Pym
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
series
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
Stories
|
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| uruvalai.wordpress.com |
story
|
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strange
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Vasht
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Wila Vila Zila
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<img width="880" height="312" src="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=880&h=312&crop=1" class="attachment-dara-featured-image size-dara-featured-image wp-post-image" alt="" decoding="async" loading="lazy" srcset="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=880&h=312&crop=1 880w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=150&h=53&crop=1 150w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=300&h=106&crop=1 300w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=768&h=273&crop=1 768w, https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=1024&h=363&crop=1 1024w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 880px) 100vw, 880px" data-attachment-id="563" data-permalink="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/untitled-design-2/" data-orig-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png" data-orig-size="1155,866" data-comments-opened="1" data-image-meta="{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0"}" data-image-title="Untitled design (2)" data-image-description="" data-image-caption="" data-large-file="https://uruvalai.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/untitled-design-2-e1585633853976.png?w=1024">
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Teller of Fortunes
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Teller of Fortunes 2-22: You pull smeerps out of a hat!
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<time class="entry-date published" datetime="2020-04-03T09:15:53-04:00">April 3, 2020</time><time class="updated" datetime="2020-04-02T23:17:23-04:00">April 2, 2020</time>
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Phoenix & Rook
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Конкуренты Готовность: 0%
Конкуренты в Яндексе
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Топ сайтов-конкурентов в Яндексе
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Конкуренты в Google
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Сайты, чаще всего появляющиеся в ТОПе Google по запросам из семантического ядра этой страницы.
Конкуренты в Google тоже не найдены. Займитесь продвижением сайта!
Конкурентов в ТОП-10 Google не нашлось.
ЗоЗПП: права потребителей Готовность: 100%
Нарушения
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Признаков дистанционной продажи товаров (интернет-магазина) не обнаружено — требования ЗоЗПП о раскрытии информации продавца к сайту не применяются. Нарушений нет.
ФЗ-149: рекомендательные технологии Готовность: 100%
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Рекомендательные блоки («с этим покупают», «похожие товары» и т.п.) на сайте не обнаружены — требования ст. 10.7 ФЗ-149 к сайту не применяются. Нарушений нет.
ФЗ-38: реклама Готовность: 100%
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Рекламных тематик с обязательными оговорками (медицина, БАД, кредиты и займы, новостройки) на сайте не обнаружено. Нарушений нет.
ФЗ-436: защита детей Готовность: 100%
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Признаков информационной продукции (новости, видео, книги, игры, курсы) не обнаружено — обязательная возрастная маркировка по ФЗ-436 сайту не требуется. Нарушений нет.
Вердикт
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