From: kjc@aramis.rutgers.edu (Kelly J. Cooper) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: Jameson W. Walker, Part IV Keywords: in which our character ponders ponderously Message-ID: Date: 5 Nov 92 22:55:53 GMT "The Magical Mystery Tour is waiting to take you away..." -The Beatles "Nonsense. Space is blue and birds fly through it." -Heisenberg Jameson W. Walker, Part IV __________________________ When the guard had finally finished questioning her, she left Glorshanned Keep and returned to Dragons Lane, heading toward the East Gates. Her proximity detector had gone off at least six times while the guards had escorted her and the prisoners to the Keep for statements and complaints and such. Possibly more than six. The poor little machine had almost gone schizoid in between a pair of architectural monstrosities just before the Keep. Fortunately, no one had noticed the quiet beeping amidst the excitement of one of the prisoners almost breaking away. She was amused and almost exasperated at the number of gateways, just lying about. The Fabric must be strong here, for the various Doors to not act on one another, distorting fields. She stopped in between the two buildings labeled The Great Library and The Mages Guild. Glad she'd turned her proximity detector off, she looked closely at the mishmash of architecture. "Yes, that's very distinct. And that ... obvious. Possibly ...? No. He was ... wait, he didn't quite. But she did ... hmm. Yes, there's that, but I have no idea about the piece hanging ... Oh! I see, but that doesn't ... well, I suppose it doesn't have to..." She didn't realize she was talking to herself until she noticed a well-dressed couple move to the other side of the lane. Smiling brightly at them, she waved the borrowed juggling clubs in their general direction and walked on, heading toward another structure that had set her detector off before she'd even imagined these two. Glancing up at the well-lit sign, she noted that a different artist had painted this dragon, (versus the one on the street sign, if you haven't been following). Opening the door and entering, a low murmur of voices washed over her. She made her way through the crowd toward the bar, where an older man seemed to preside. Resting her pack on the bar, she leaned over, to speak into his ear and be heard over the din. "Good sir, a bath and a room for a night, possibly longer. With whom should I speak?" He smiled at her tolerantly, "You've found the man, lass. Littlefair's the name." He stuck out a thick hand. Awkwardly, she switched the clubs about and submitted her right hand to be engulfed. Her grip seemed to make a good showing though, "Your request, meals included, will require a fair number of coppers, a pair o'silver, or a small bit of gold (with change of course)." Digging into her pockets, she came up with a very well worn gold piece and some small silvers which she handed to him. Winking, he indicated the wash room, currently unoccupied, then handed her a key with a numbered tag, gesturing toward the steps. Gratefully, she took the key, failed to pick up the pack in the hand that had the clubs, tried to switch the clubs back to her right, decided against it and finally grabbed her bag in her right hand and moved off in the direction of the wash room, trailing dust behind. Mary shook her head, smiling. Littlefair wiped the dirt off his bar. The girl was gone for just on half an hour when the door opened and a mild looking young woman, with damp but neatly combed hair, a clean shirt and well brushed trous exited the bath. Being quite sure no one else had entered in the meantime, Littlefair was pleasantly surprised by the change. She walked calmly through the multi-cultural crowd, headed for the stairway and disappeared into her room on the second floor. Thanking luck that she had enough coin for her own room, she sat, sinking into the softness of the bed and losing her grip on the clubs to drop them with a clatter. Wincing at the noise, she leaned down to remove her already unlaced boots. She tied the boots to the pack and placed the pack at the head of the bed, next to her pillow. Looking down at the clubs thoughtfully, she scooped them up and set them in front of the door. Anyone who tried to enter would cause some clatter. Returning to the bed, she lay down, wound an arm through one of the shoulder straps and fell immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep. -*- Waking in full daylight, she felt much better. Easing out of bed, she stood, did some slow stretches, then brushed out her hair. She put on her boots, slung her pack over her shoulder, picked up the clubs and left, locking the door behind her. The key she pocketed before going downstairs. Entering the common room, she took a more careful inventory of the various peoples. She moved carefully through the crowd, trying not to bump into any short-tempered fighter types. Managing to reach the bar, she ordered fresh juice and a slab or two of their most recently baked bread from the smiling young woman. She succeeded in settling into a small table, where she set her pack before her. When the juice and toasted bread arrived, she had just managed to dig her protein rations out of her pack. She spread a tiny cube of the stuff along with the half-melted butter and quietly consumed the meal. Her eyes travelled the room a number of times while she ate, and she made a number of observations. She catalogued the races she had met during her time spent on this world so far -- Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, Goblins, Centaurs, Ano, Lizardfolk, Merfolk, and Humans seemed to be native, or close enough to native that it didn't matter. The Ano had stories of coming from a distant land through a doorway, as did a number of the other races. But if and when it had happened, it had been millenia ago. And, each race had many substrata, as she had seen and as was evidenced here. She contemplated a pair of Drow Elves and noted a number of Elven mixtures and one Golden Elf. She considered the number of strains of lycanthropy, some degenerative, some non-degenerative, that she had encountered or heard about. Discounting hysterical stories, she had several accounts that correlated accurately. One or two strains had actually adapted genetically to become a natural and even useful trait. Natural psionics were not necessarily common, but nonetheless easily found and genetically linked for the most part. Certain races had a predilection for them, while others had no tendencies whatsoever. Humanity was a wild card race, where the trait might or might not follow inheritance laws. The ability to perform magic generally appeared to be one that was learned through practice, although the disposition or talent for it seemed to be an inheritable trait, much like musical ability. However, it was possibly also dependent on the concentration of magic in the area. This was the puzzling part. Magic did not seem to be an active field nor an innate mental talent, although both could be manipulated with magic. And, that which is considered magic seemed to exist on a large number of the worlds she had visited. There seemed to be internal consistency -- a set of laws governing magic on each world -- but cross-dimensional laws became tangled. In the shamanistic tradition, it was a closeness with the land and the spiritual existence of all living matter that allowed a different level of perception and manipulation from the average, "blind" individual. But this was governed by the laws of nature. It was a shaping and adapting kind of magic. Conjuring was a communication and control ability with regard to the elemental planes. It involved either innate talent or a strict set of rules for binding. Then there was the power of the Cleric -- prayer magic. Depending upon the god, the god's abilities, the cleric's devotion and the particular ritual, almost anything could be achieved. And rune-casting apparently involved psionics and strict training in the tracing out of patterns. But, from experience, she knew that innate ability was not necessary. With the right tools, knowledge of the correct patterns and the ability to concentrate, a fair amount of rune work could be done by almost anyone. Power. Much of magic involved the manipulation, attainment or loss of power. Some magics needed to draw on internal reserves, some on external sources. Lines of power or ... what had they been called? Ley lines, that was it. They seemed to used for strength. It was like matter and energy. Magic drew on matter --a Human's hair, an Elf's blood, a blessed object, a small animal, a sacrifice, a Dwarf's beard, a bone, a beating heart, a scroll-- and turned it into energy. Or, magic drew on energy --the driving force of survival, the energy pattern structuring a dimension, the innate reserves of the caster, the life of energy-based beings-- and channelled it into another kind of energy. Or, Jameson mused as she watched one patron stealthily remove a purse from another, magic could be something else altogether. In fact, she continued mentally as the second patron casually snapped his fingers and was suddenly in possession two small bags, magic was probably all of the above plus some. Different worlds had had different concentrations. The most common she'd encountered was shamanistic, followed by cleric, psionic and vampiristic respectively. The odd thing being that most worlds, and she mentally emphasized "most" to herself, had only one sort, possibly two if they were compatible or reliant upon each other. This world seemed to have them all plus some variations she'd not yet encountered. Nexus. That was the name an traveller she'd met in Verland had called this place, this world. Certainly was a valid name. Shaking herself from her reverie, she withdrew yet another gadget from her bag. This one had a glowing gridded screen. She pressed a button and a square lit up. Tapping on a key with an arrow imprinted on in, the square blew up to be the whole screen. Another keystroke marked the square off into another grid. Clearing the screen, she stowed the machine, donned her pack, collected her clubs and walked to the bar. The unflappable barman smiled at her. "Hello, lass. What can I get you?" "I was just wondering if you knew you had an extra-dimensional hole under your bar?" The barman's left eyebrow lifted and was joined shortly by his right. He took a step back and peered under the bar. Looking up he smiled at Jameson. "That, lass, is ...sage's mailbox." Jameson blinked. "His mailbox." The barman nodded solemnly. Jameson blinked again. "Right. Thank you." She turned on her heel and left the inn. Outside, in the bright near-noonday sun she stood indecisive, smiling quietly to herself. Should she find Drummer and return his clubs first or go to the library first? Looking at the bulky inconvenience of the clubs, she decided to look for Drummer. Glancing up and looking around the city, she briefly reconsidered. Perhaps she needed a map first? Shaking her head and settling her pack, she aimed for the market where she'd met him yesterday. Chances were if he wasn't there, someone might know where to find him. -*- Kelly J. Cooper \ Doggy paddle... Tragically Hip Waif \ Comments appreciated. ...individual at large... \ kjc@cs.rutgers.edu