Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: caz@owlnet.rice.edu (HWRNMNBSOL) Subject: Inclement Weather and Welcome Refuge Message-ID: Date: Mon, 30 Nov 1992 05:12:46 GMT The notorious Generican weather is at it again. The fickle winds of the Western Ocean can bring the peace and calm of Paradise, or the fiercest typhoon from the very deepest of Hells. It dispenses rain, and fog, and sleet, and sunshine, with the studious indifference of a farmer throwing scraps to the hogs. Native Genericans, adaptive as always, take this meteorological smorgasbord with amazing equanimity. Now, of course, it's snowing. At least the winds have died down. It's cold out, but not bitterly so, and the curtain of white hangs straight down instead of blowing through the chinks and cracks of creaking garrets. If anything, the unexpected snowfall lends a kind of fairy-tale atmosphere to the City of Fountains. Bells have been attached to the harnesses of horses, and their merry jingle pierces the milky veil that hides much of the ugliness from view. Young alley children emerge into the cold, and soon are shrieking with rare joy and playing breathless games with balls of snow and dagger-like icicles. Even older citizens, old hands at this kind of celestial caprice, emerge with a vague air of awe onto the streets and poke tentatively at the ice that is beginning to turn the infamous fountains into potential skating rinks in miniature. Outside the city walls there is considerably less activity, for travellers tend to shirk snowstorms, preferring to grumble in their roadside inns and wait for a better day. In particular, the Rameshan Road, which doesn't see much traffic anyway, is quite devoid of people. It placidly accepts the blanket of snow and seems to slumber like a great, bloated serpent under eiderdown wraps. Now and again, though, the road appears as a sleeping snake with a fly on its back. There is a faint speck of black creeping along its length, slowly making its way towards the city. The speck is briefly masked by a particularly fierce flurry. Minutes later, there it is again, but it has grown. No fly this time -- a person, dressed in black garments, heavily laden with gear. The traveller struggles through the snow, leaning on a long pole for stability. At the gates of the city, the road leads up to the defunct South Gate. However, the last 100 feet or so of the causeway are nothing more than jumbled blocks -- those southern merchants who wish to enter Generica must take the beaten dirt track called the Rameshan Detour, which arcs across the walls to join the Vascondy Road entering the East Gate. At the verge of the detour, the traveller stops to survey the ancient city. The hood of the thick cloth robe, lined with a thick yellow fur, is pushed back. The bald head of a very cold man is revealed. His skin is black. Forget the racial euphemisms -- his skin is a deep, glossy ebony in color, slightly blue from the cold. His eyes and teeth are, in contrast, a piercing white. He grins against the chill, and speaks to the very walls of the city: "Ah......There you are." To a Terran, his accent would be identified as that of an Oxford-educated Jamaican. A misplaced Terran, anyway, with a smattering of Common.... "From the libraries of Rameshan, I read of you. From the mouths of loutish sailors, I heard tell of your wonders. From the whispers of the Shark, I learned to lust for your weak, diluted blood...." He draws back his teeth, revealing that they are filed to rather sharp points. He seems to notice his misty breath for the first time, and stares about him in wonder. "O mighty Shark, fearless hunter of the seas, I do not know why it is that you have called me from my balmy islands, now almost two years past. I do not know why I have seen the cities of civilization" (this word is hissed) "or read the books of their prophets, or tasted of the filth of a thousand horrors. I do not know why you visit these trials upon me. But I, like you, am patient. You circle for hours before you taste of the blood of your prey. I, too, shall circle for hours. I will bide my time in this.. this...this cyst on the buttocks of a sleeping giant.....I will wait until I fully understand your purpose. "But in the end, O Shark, I shall taste blood." He takes one last, contemptuous look at the massive walls of the city. The snowfall masks any sight of its horrors, but Kukul Son of Ukambe can smell the smoke and spices and reek of confined humanity. He does not need to see the press of cattle to know it is there. He can sense it, as does his patron God. But it is still cold, and there is warmth aplenty in the city. Kukul philosophizes briefly on the taking of the good with the bad, and shoulders his bags once more. He strides across the causeway and towards the East Gate. The guards are cold too, and in no mood for any kind of fuss. Given a single decent bribe, they would run for the nearest tavern and gratefully toss back a jack of hot cider. But nobody will bribe the keepers of a basically open portal, so they grumble and rub their hands and hope that next time they draw a watch over the Port Authority, where unwatchfulness is a quality in some great demand. Kukul fits in the category of 'Disaster in the Making'. He towers over the guards, and his thick fur-lined robe makes him seem more beast than man. The color of his skin does not help this impression, for Genericans are far from immune to the prejudices shared by residents of other, lesser cities. He looks thoroughly angry, and thoroughly brutal, and thoroughly poor to boot. The guards do not even look at Kukul as he strides through the gates of the city. Once through, wipes the snarl from his face and permits himself a small grin. This is the fifth city whose entry tarriff he has avoided. Crunching through the snow-drifted streets of this sprawling metropolis, Kukul plunges into the heart of the city. He passes by the standard dives in search of an inn recommended by a trustworthy academian from Ios. Crossing a great square, his hobnailed boots clanging on something metal beneath the snow, he spots his quarry. Threading through the crossfire of a gaminesque artillery battle, Kukul ducks his head and enters the door under the swinging sign labelled "The Dragon's Inn"..... -- HWRNMNBSOL