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.

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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