I had a truly splendid time in sunny Victoria, and really enjoyed meeting a host of familiar faces again, and a whole lot of new ones, particularly the Digest's Peter Metcalfe (the man with a different passport for every contingency) and Martin Laurie (even scarier in real life). The con organisers (Neil, Bill, Paul, the Seattle Farmers' Collective) did a great job, and the con book Enclosure is a joy to behold. A big thankyou all round!
The con kicked off with 'Welcoming the Goddess' and it was a hoot. After last year's Convulsion's 'HeroQuest Party' - in which my group staged a sort of "Carry On Up the Cradle" farce, replete with cross-dressing, the Y-E-L-M song and ritual castration of David Hall - I was worried that we couldn't rise to such heights (or sink to such depths) this year. Not to worry - our team, whose job it was to welcome the Red Goddess, decided the only types who'd do this with any enthusiasm would be *sensitive New Age* Orlanthi. When the event ended in a mass "group hug" (which unfortunately became catch-cry of the con, as it turned out), I knew we'd won the hearts of even the most recalcitrant.
I had a blast in Life of Moonson, hamming it up as very familiar Moonson. If next week's National Enquirer features grainy shots of a jump-suited Elvis strolling through the grounds of UVic and the goggle-eyed testimony of some Southern tourist, relax - it was probably me. Full scenery-chewing credit must go to Arch-Cenobite Phil Anderson and Kerie Campbell as Princess Amora. I only wish we could have played the Darth Vader music as John Medway strode into the room as the masked Bellex Maximus, and Marion Anderson was wearing a masterpiece of plastic engineering as Jar-Eel the Razoress that made roleplaying around her somewhat, er distracting. Despite copping Beat Pot's helmet on the bonce during one harrowing scene, I don't know if it was the fear or the great love people have for their emperor that meant that I didn't need to use a single card or special ability during the game to assert Moonson's will.
I attended a number of very interesting seminars (though I mistakenly thought that the one on "Black Sheep Races" would involve some sort of running or physical activity - it turned out to be about ducks, tusk riders, newtlings and the like; some fascinating stuff came out though I left when the talk got round to Grotarons). Apres-events get-togethers were great too: at one we comprehensively covered with Greg what the God Learner Secret *isn't*, and can I think I can now summarise what caused their downfall in one word, or even a gesture.
After the con I joined Dave Pearton's trip to the San Juan islands. He promised us frolicking orcas, bald eagles and seals, and we got 'em in spades! Dave was a brilliant tour guide and host and the whale-watching in kayaks was an unforgettable experience.
Looking forward to seeing as many of you as we can in Melbourne next January!
Cheers
MOB
[XXIX.1345.Gerallon/p2*]
It was raining when he arrived in a village. He walked slowly through, now shivering under his soaked cloak, avoiding all doors. From the inn came the glow of a warm fire, the odour of a hearty meal and the sounds of merriment.
He avoided the inn.
Almost abandoning hope of finding any peaceful shelter for the night he noticed, on the fringes of town, an old building, curiously made of worked stone. Before its door were two pillars; one on a crazy angle, the other, having given up the struggle against age and gravity, lying in the grass. The building appeared to be an abandoned temple: the runes on the pillars told it to be that of Lhankor Mhy, the sage-god.
He mounted the stairs cautiously, and pushed open the door. It was dark inside, but dry, and safe. He entered, his hooves clomping on the hard floor and echoing off the walls. It was then he noticed a glimmer of light.
An old, bearded man approached him, carrying a lantern, yet his sightless eyes showed the lamp was not for himself (unless he carried it only because he was used to doing so). "Who is here?", the old one asked, turning his head as if trying to listen where the intruder was.
"My name is Gerallon", replied the stranger.
"What are you doing here stranger? I don't recognize your voice."
"I don't live in these parts; I have no profession. I am just ...a wanderer."
"And the inn was full? And you would like to ask me for shelter?"
"Yes ...I thought the temple was empty."
"My Lord never leaves his temples abandoned. Or ...I have have not heard
of one, anyway. Follow me." The elderly priest turned, but halted again
when he heard the stomping. "You have boots reinforced with bronze,
Gerallon."
"I wear no boots." There was a moment's silence. "It's my hooves."
Gerallon paused again, and the blind man began to walk on.
"I'm a broo, old man."
The expected reaction didn't come. The old man just shrugged his shoulders and kept walking. "Well, I hope you're clean, Gerallon, it wouldn't want to catch something from you. Come this way."
The blind sage led his guest to a small room, furnished with sparsely with bed and nightstand. It was warm and dry. The priest beckoned further down the hall, where, through an archway, came the flickering glow of a fire. "Join me when you're ready" he said, and shuffled down the hall.
Later, Gerallon entered the large chamber and gasped. Shelves covered its walls, and they brimmed with leather-bound books, wound scrolls and an incredible array of exotic items: among them; jars containing preserved specimens, a dragonskin, a collection of coloured pennants, assorted lumps of crystal and yes, high on a top shelf, a broo skull, short-horned like his own.
In the center of the room, his back to the fireplace, the old man was seated at a huge table, piled high with volumes and scrolls. He was reading, if that is what you would call it, his fingers moving slowly over the lines in a book, his lips mouthing words. When he heard Gerallon approach he turned his head in the approximate direction of his guest.
"Take a seat", he said, gesturing to a place at the table where a modest
meal and mug of mulled wine had been set. He groped for his own mug, and
Gerallon passed it to him.
Gerallon ate silently, studying the priest who occasionally sipped his drink and yet still moved his fingers on the page before him. Finally, the old man put the book away and took up a blank piece of parchment and a quill.
"Well." said he, dipping the quill in a small ink-well (its pool
cunningly shaped like an open mouth). "You must know that we, the sages of
Lhankor Mhy, collect information - of any kind. Like, why does a broo come
to me peacefully for shelter?"
"And does not cut your throat instead?"
"Exactly. Would you tell me your story?"
"Yes, old man."
*note: this is the second part of a story submitted to Tales so long ago I have lost the author's name. The english language version here was substantially polished from the original submission by me; I think author might have been Finnish or Swedish. I've put it up here because it is unlikely it will ever be published in the zine but I think it is good 'un (and I spent quite a while working on it at the time). It would be great if I could get in touch with the author again.
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