Gwythead and Goedwyn - Part 1

Math was High King, but cursed to forever rest his feet in the lap of a virgin; so, wherever he went he was accompanied by the fair maiden, Goedwyn, in whose lap he rested his feet.
It is said that when Gwythead first looked upon Goedwyn, his heart was filled with a great love. As his longing for Goedwyn grew greater, he eschewed all of his former pastimes.He stopped his hunting. He ceased to join his companions in contests of strength. He did not eat; and at meals, fell heavily into his cups.
He forbade poetry and music in his presence, and became churlish at the smallest sounds. His halls  became somber and dreary, where once it had been boisterous and lively. His companions, who loved their lord dearly, could make nothing of the changes in Gwythead's mind and manner; and they knew not what to do. For some time, Gwythead continued in this manner, his color and form wasting away because of his love for Goedwyn.
One day, Gwydion, wearing the mantle of a great eagle as he oft was wont to do, chanced to fly above his brother Gwythead's keep.
"Ah," thought Gwydion. " I have flown very far today and I am now quite weary; moreover, it has been too long since I have seen my dear brother. Thus, I shall call upon him, and perhaps spend a night or two in his  famed hospitality."
And this is what he did. But upon his arrival, the gates were closed against his entry.
 "Ho there," he called. "What is this, that the gates of my brother, Prince Gwythead, should be closed and barred against me?"
"My lord," the guards called down form the gates. "on our good lord's command, we have shut these gates to all those who would enter. Our good lord has forbade all visitors, even the wandering bards that once were so well received here."
Gwydion was incredulous at these words, for they sounded most unlike the brother he had long known.
"Sir," cried Gwydion. "by the gods themselves that does sound most strange.  If ever you had love for your lord my brother, you shall open these doors to me and bring me at once before your lord and I shall see for myself what strange spell ails him."

And so  Gwydion was brought into the great hall of the keep, and when he beheld his brother, Gwydion was shocked.
"Brother," he said. "What has happened to you?"
"Why brother, "said Gwythead. "what is wrong with me?"
"Indeed," Gwydion replied. "You have lost all of your his color and your form is wasting away."
 "My dear brother, there is no point in me telling anyone what has happened, for I am sure there is nothing that can be done about it. I do love the fair Goedwyn, but alas she is bound to serve the good high king, Math, and so remains ever out of my reach."
At the Gwydion let out a heavy sigh, for he knew the turmoil in his brother's heart.
"Say no more, brother." Gwydion counseled. "For have we two not ever sought and striven for the impossible. Hear me now, this very day I shall set forth form your good house and rest not a single day until the fair Goedwyn's hand is yours."
And on hearing this, Gwythead was cheered, for never before had his brother failed once he had set his mind and hand to a task.
And so as he said, Gwydion set forth that very hour to some way win for his beloved brother the hand of Goedwyn, the most beautiful maiden in the Nine Realms.
But none knew then, to what lengths Gwydion would needs go in order to achieve his quest, nor what dire consequences his actions would hold.

The Steps to Rome

The city of Rome is many things, but short is certainly not one of them.

I had heard of the Seven Hills of Rome long before I reached the ancient city, but it really wasn't until I set foot on the banks of the Tiber that I fully comprehended exactly how many stairs accompanied those hills. Almost every inch of the city comprises a staircase or gradient. I ended up walking not so much around the city, and far more up and down through the city. Combining this with a puerile obsession to reach the top of almost every site I came across and we achieve a recipe for idiotic exhaustion.

View from the Top of the Palatine

Every building in Rome offers the "unique" opportunity to climb to it's top for "spectacular views". That's the phrase bandied about: "spectacular views". The phrase has become some code-word, or mantra used to ensnare tourists.

"Come," they call. "See the Eternal City from *our* vantage point! Not that this view is in any way different to the view you would get from the house next door! But Com! Trust Us! The view is Spectacular!"

Lying Bastards!

 *Citation Needed*

And like lams to the slaughter, we follow, following blindly up tight spiral staircases to the top of basilicas, up wide marble steps to beautiful gardens of long-forgotten cardinals, up stairs carved into the hills itself.  There are stairs of polished marble, that echo in vaulted reliquaries. There are stairs of antiquated granites that have been worn down over a thousand years worth of mendicant footfalls. There are shining, aluminum steps that old men slip on during rain storms. The are old steps with industrial mats placed over them, to protect them from metal detectors and X-ray machines. The are Spanish steps that go to French Embassies, and French steps that go to Spanish brothels. They wind backwards, forwards, through, around, betwixt, crouching down , turning sideways.

I can't say Rome is not a beautiful city. While walking through Rome, I can't help but feel as if I am walking through a fairy tale. It's a place of ancient history and culture, and as one ambles through the streets it's nearly impossible not to the feel the weight of those years bearing down upon you; on the other hand, that burning in my calves might have less to do with the history of Rome, and more to do with the Goddamned Stairs!

Star Wars X-Wing: Miniatures Game

I recently had the opportunity to play the new Star Wars X-Wing minis game, and I have to say it is utterly fantastic!

Opening Salvos between Imperial and Rebel Forces

As always, I love anything that allows me to play with little space-ships, but this particular game added a level of structure that actually improved my normal child-like interest. The mechanics are extremely simple, with enough variation to keep it interesting by no means too complicated for people to get confused even after one or two or eight drinks. They handle the movement through space in a very novel and engaging way, that detaches miniatures combat from a game board or rulers, a feat rarely achieved at all and I would say never this well. The play-time is about half an hour, which is short enough to keep things well-paced and everyone engaged .


All in all, an excellent and easy game for almost any number of drunk people.

X-Wings Blast Apart a TIE Fighter

Commander positions his Squadron

Gwythead and Gwydion

Math had two nephews, Gwythead and Gwydion.

Gwythead was a strong warrior, whose skills in arms were unmatched throughout Math's realms. In trials of sword or lance, Gwythead was always first among Math's liege kinsmen.When he was a young boy of nine, he bested two of the kingdom's greatest swordsman. He was perhaps the greatest swords yet seen. But still, he was merciful in as well, never drawing his sword in earnest lest it be to protect the weak or to defend the honour of his liege lord or kinsmen.

Gwythead spent his days hunting the forests and wilder lands of his holdings and spent his evenings in his Great Hall. His table was always well provisioned, and any traveler could find a night of safety and refuge in Gwythead's hall. He had a particular love of music, and the wandering bards found themselves well-received in his keep, so much so that they often spent several weeks in his company. As such, his halls were always filled with music and laughter.

Gwythead's younger brother Gwydion, was a powerful sorcerer and could change his form into that of the beasts of the land and the birds of the air. So too, was he able to converse with the many beasts and birds, and so he learned many secrets of the untamed places that men dare not go; but spending so much time with the wild things instilled in the prince a similar wildness as well. It was rare for the Gwydion to spend more than two or three nights in any given place.

It was not uncommon for the young prince to take the form of a hunting hawk or a great eagle. He would fly throughout his lands surveying the works of his people, from the highest lord to lowliest waif. Ofttimes, he would stop here or there at the halls of his liege lords or the cots of his craftsmen to inspect the planting of grains or the sheering of sheep. Indeed, in this way Gwydion became well known to every petty knight and artisan  in his holdings, and for this he was well-loved.

The Princes had many great adventures and the tales of their deeds were sung by the bards in the far corners of the Nine Realms, and some of those stories and told herein.

Inadvertant Movie Stars

A good friend and I were traveling through Rome; and as always, our navigational skills are finely tuned, so that we never get where we want to go in a timely manner, but often we arrive where we need to be.

We were making our circuitous way towards the Vatican, attempting to decipher the ancient, indecipherable script of the Roman Bus Plans, I think, in our over-eagerness, we perhaps stepped of our bus one, or perhaps seven stops too early. I'm not entirely sure how wrong we were, but I am sure that we were wrong, because the place wen ended up was certainly not the Vatican but rather a small side street to the South of the Ponte Sant'Angelo.

The Ponte Sant'Angelo is a beautiful piece of architecture, where the medieval Romans held their executions, and a lovingly cared-for mixture of Roman engineering and Renaissance elegance. We two marveled at it's subtly wonder, but also at our own stupidity, because as beautiful as former Aelian Bridge is, it is certainly not the Vatican. So we had a bit of a walk ahead of us.

As we made our way across the bridge, I noticed the Romans on the bridge were especially well-dressed. The men sported vintage coats and hats that you would see in 1920's gangster movie. The women's dresses were conservative, with a hidden refinement, matching the 1920's ambiance of the men they were with. Even the cars parked on the side of the streets displayed this mastery of style. Old BMWs and vintage Mercedes. All of it lent itself to the feeling of having stepped into the roaring twenties, age of vice and gambling and jazz.

And then as we continued walking we passed a young man in jeans and t-shirt, holding aloft a boom microphone, as if he was filing the 1920's movie we had just stepped into. It occurred to me that the ambiance we felt was very deliberate., almost a goal. Looking around, I noticed the other tell-tale signs of movie production: a woman with a portable make-up kit, several men in folding chairs with scripts, a man with a megaphone, and the collected exasperated expression of the Italian crew at having a pair of tourists walk into the middle of their shot.

Having already committed to being anachronistic movie-extras, there wasn't much else to do but go along with it.

So the next time you take your boyfriend or girlfriend to the next hit, Italian period drama, look closely in the background of the Ponte Sant'Angelo for two Americans, in bluejeans and baseball caps.

Rome

The ancient city squats across the the Tiber, its spires encroaching on the heavens in every sense of the phrase. The houses blend together time into an absurd and awe-inspiring architectural goulash, the ancient forum butting up against the baroque domiciles of the faithful that form the foundations for glass and steel towers of modern Italian governance and fashion. Romans live their meager lives in the shadows of Emperors, Popes, Inventors, Poets and Painters, and the wreckage of a shattered economy.

A city that has lived so long can be nothing but a contradiction; and if the city itself does not know what it is, how can I?

 

Math the High King

Math ab Mathonwy was High King

And he was by all accounts a good king, generous and open-handed with his banner men and steadfast against his enemies. Men were free to come and go as they pleased, trading their goods and wares between the great lords' holdings and the townships. Craftsmen plied their skills, farmers saw to their crops, and the drovers kept their flocks. Under Math's rule, the land prospered and the people were content.

But Math was also a sad king, for he bore a terrible curse; for at all times, he must needs rest his feet in the lap of a virgin, lest he be struck down and die on the spot. Only whilst his kingdom was at open war, could Math stand and defend his people from the dangers that beset them. And so wherever he traveled. he was accompanied by the lady Rhiannon, whose was remarked beyond fair. And she was always beneath the High King, his feet resting in her lap.

Closing Times

The closing of a bar is an odd thing.

Regardless of the region, every local bar seem to subscribe to some collective agreement on closing times. As soon as that first bar decides to close its doors, those around it quickly follow suit, one by one in a most profoundly sad domino effect.

The deserted streets are then flooded with the human dregs of the evening. Men and women either unable or unwilling to go home, thrust themselves onto a black asphalt river that carries them to their respective harbors of safety, if not rest. They're like water, flowing through the gutter, carried out and away to the far-off sea. How strange a phenom.

A young man looks desperately for a woman to warm his bed during the night. A group of maenads, released form the Dionysian trance, slowly slip away leaving behind a shop-girl, a seamstress, a secretary. A bachelor party, still drnk on their companion's upcoming nuptials, sings a bawdy song, meandering through the crowd. A stoic police officer wants to go home to a tolerant wife and blue-collar children.

The streets smell of salt and copper. Shoes splash through the low points, where water has inevitably pooled into oily puddles, even though its has not rained in several weeks. Pale yellow street lights reflect in the windows of shops that closed hours ago, catching reflections of sad, weary faces.

I'm always saddened by such scenes. By the people who've stopped laughing. The people who are left to wander god-knows-where under the neon street lamps.

Do they also have no home to return to?

Gaming Updates - 001

Updated the Gaming Section.

Feel free to check it out!

The Wolfish Grinn - Prologue

The rain pours down.

It splashes off the shingled roof, and collects in muddy pools. The walls of inn, though stout well-made, lose none of the grime collected over uncounted years.One of the shutters comes loose in the wind, banging out an Apollonian rhythm. The thunder cracks and the horses are startled, but the grooms have been attentive this evening, and their stables are bolted against the storm. Outside, only the rain moves.

Inside, the patrons huddle together to conserve what little warmth there is. Firewood is expensive, and the inn, though popular, has seen better days.

In the center of the room, the Fat Man holds court. The guests surrounds him as he tells a bawdy tale. It concerns a miller and his wife. The men around him laugh. The Fat Man swallows down another mouthful of brown ale, spilling some onto his tunic. He's had three this night, and is likely to have a few more by the time the rain finally lets up. He wipes his jowls in between guffaws. The men laugh with him. All but one two.

The Innkeeper runs a towel across his bar. He's never been overly fond of the Fat Man's stories, but he's good for business. He can always be counted on for a joke or a laugh, especially on a Stormy Night like this. In times like these, a laugh can have m,ore value than gold. The Innkeeper lets out a sigh. He is tired. His wife is putting out the candles. Candles are even more costly than firewood, and what few they have are spent sparingly, during dinner on crowded nights.

What little light there is comes from the massive fireplace built into the south wall. Of all the things in the inn, the fireplace is by far the most grand. The mantle  is dark oak and as tall as a man, carved into the shapes of great beasts. A lion catches a young stag. Wolves howl towards a moonless horizon. Hawks, and Eagles fly between and around serpents, boars, and foxes. The two cornices are carved into the likenesses of great Ravens. They watch the room, with eyes filled with though and memory.

The hearth is warm and dry, but the the guests stay gathered in the center, around the Fat Man. They don't approach the roaring warmth of the fireplace. Not yet. That will come later. For now, the fire is only for the Old Man.

He squats on a stool, facing into the flames. His back is bent and his face is weathered. His gnarled hands wrap around an ashen staff, carved with ancient  runes and sigils whose meanings have been long forgotten. He watches the shadows the beasts and birds cast with a single, sunken  eye. An eye that has seen many thing, perhaps too many.

The Fat Man laughs one last time and falls silent. The guests murmurs, muttering and chortling at the cleverness of the Fat Man's tale. The Innkeeper's wife blows out the last candle. The only light and warmth left comes form the fireplace, from the Old Man.

The guests move closer to him. What few children there are sit on the floor before the older members of the crowd. The Fat Man, a fourth ale in his hand, takes a seat in the second row. The Innkeepers puts down his cloth and sits next to the him. His wife joins him. They wait. They are silent. The old man closes his eye. It is time for him to decide.

In the great library of his mind, he walks between endless rows of shelves. As he walks slowly down the halls formed from the ancient stands, his hands brush the bindings of ancient tomes, the pages of unbound manuscripts,and the edges of faded scrolls. Which one will be tonight's?

His eyes drifts along the shelves towards one book. It sits alone on the shelf, rough brown leather binding together crisp white pages. Amongst a world of dust and cobwebs, it alone is clean, as if newly made. And of everything here, that book alone belonged to the Old Man.

Would this be the night? No. Not yet. That book would be last,when all other tales had been told He moved on.

He stopped. Yes. This tale has not seen the air for many years. Had it's time come again? The Old Man reaches for the book. Yes, he thinks. This tale would do.

He opened his eye, facing the guests. The fire casts his shadow over the Inn's great room. The light dances across their eager eyes, and they lick their lips.

The Old Man smiles.

"Once Upon a Time..."

The rain pours down.

Horse Play

I had spent a long night drinking, making friends and enemies of the various people around me. As usual, I was by far the most boisterous person around. Hoover, the closing of the bar was about to bring my tom-foolery to a premature end. I was not yet ready to go home. I still had buckets of energy and the enthusiasm and foolhardy will to apply it. I followed the ebb-and-flow of wavering humanity into the gloomy night, in search of some new and greater mischief. Such mischief materialized in the four-footed form of an equestrian nature.

The horse stood three hands taller than me, brown fur and dark eyes staring mutely amidst a crowd of half-bent and stumbling louts. It stood firm like a butte of sea stone upon which morning waves would break and split themselves. I immediately recognized an opportunity to make, if not a true friend, than at least an amicable acquaintance. The question of why exactly a horse should be standing in the middle of a New York street at three in the morning did not seem all too important to me at the time. I stumbled forward and introduced myself to the beast.

I explained that as I was from Texas, I was familiar with how to properly handle horses, and that the fellow need not be worried about being lost in the large city, as I would gladly see it home. The horse whinnied in acknowledgement.

My comments sparked the interest of several passers by. One fellow exclaimed that he, too, was from Texas. He quickly joined in the discussion and the three of us amicably reminisced about Texas, ranches and the open prairie sky. All in all, we had a most enjoyable conversation.

Our talking was brought up sharply by a gruff cough. I looked around, but could see no one other than myself and my two companions. A second cough drew my gaze upward to the man, who had presumably been sitting astride the friendly horse this entire time. A man, I might add, who looked eerily similar to a a police officer.

The man frowned down at us. He seemed incensed that two drunkards had spent the last ten minutes talking with his mount. A can't imagine exactly why he would find this frustrating. Realizing that I had, technically,, just assaulted a police officer, I sheepishly retreated, chased by the glowers of one of New York's finest.

So, it would behoove one to remember that horses that wander around city neighborhoods at night tend to be attached to people who might not be amused by your attempts at befriending their steeds.

The Queen of Air and Darkness

Her strong enchantments failing,
  Her towers of fear in wreck,
Her limbecks dried of poisons
  And the knife at her neck,

The Queen of air and darkness
  Begins to shrill and cry,
`O young man, O my slayer
  To-morrow you shall die.'

O Queen of air and darkness
  I think 'tis truth you say,
And I shall die to-morrow;
  But you shall die to-day

From Last Poems by A.E. Housman