1/29/2005
Prologue - Stories, Plots and Dreams
It remains a mystery to me how some people can so thoroughly misunderstand the things we do. We live in our own city, the city of the Magii, and we rarely bother anyone. That doesn���t stop some people from circulating rumours to the contrary. Oh, I don���t deny that there are always a few troublemakers, but that���s true of any organisation, and we are always happy in deposing any would be mage-kings.
Who am I? I���m just the storyteller, the one relating the unfortunate events leading up to the death of the king.
It all started many years ago, when people for profit or what I know not, stirred up hatred against our kind. For years we had worked alongside the rest of humanity, making charms to prevent metal from rusting, casting spells of warding to keep wild animals away from the smaller villages, doing those acts of magic which benefited all the races. Then the burnings came, the hysteria of the witch hunts, which by the way slaughtered far more commoners than anything else, since it gave the mob the right to carry out a lot of grudge killings. I hold no grudges against people in the most part, and carry none against those destroyers, despite the fact that my daughter was burned alive. I learned to forgive, in the years that followed.
In many ways, the mass exodus of magic users to Haven could easily have been predicted, but no one seemed prepared for the huge mass of humanity that came to swell this small port. Here at the imperial university of magic, most felt sure that they were safe. Within a year the town became a city, with walls large enough to keep out our fear, and terrify the neighbouring dukedoms. Within three years, an army stood at the gates, siege engines and ballista, infantry, cavalry and pikemen. On these walls stood the gathered ranks of all the mages of our time.
Never in all my years have I forgotten the horror of the next few minutes. All our rage and terror was poured out on those men, and whether they realised it or not, they were defenceless against our might. Fireballs and lightning and death rained from the sky. The earth rocked beneath their feet and split asunder, The sky turned black and the ground turned red. There was no retreat, no rout that day, because there were no survivors. Any thought of vengeance that I had died too that day.
There were people who cried out for more blood, just as the commoners had done before us. It would be nice to say that we were better educated, or that we were more noble, or attribute some higher motive to our final decision. The real reason was a mixture of fear, doubt and the terrible aftermath of death, plague.
Disorganised as we were at the time, a loose confederacy of hundreds of powerful individuals, we left the bodies to rot in the sun while we discussed our next move. Within two weeks we had reached an agreement, but the unearthly stench from the open graves did more than turn our stomachs, and people started dying in droves. By the time the healers had found a cure, nearly half of us were corpses, and the only fresh thing in the city was our grief. Had the city not been a port I am sure we would have starved, and the dream would have ended there. But the sea, and fresh fish, were only an oars breadth away.
*** to be continued ***
Who am I? I���m just the storyteller, the one relating the unfortunate events leading up to the death of the king.
It all started many years ago, when people for profit or what I know not, stirred up hatred against our kind. For years we had worked alongside the rest of humanity, making charms to prevent metal from rusting, casting spells of warding to keep wild animals away from the smaller villages, doing those acts of magic which benefited all the races. Then the burnings came, the hysteria of the witch hunts, which by the way slaughtered far more commoners than anything else, since it gave the mob the right to carry out a lot of grudge killings. I hold no grudges against people in the most part, and carry none against those destroyers, despite the fact that my daughter was burned alive. I learned to forgive, in the years that followed.
In many ways, the mass exodus of magic users to Haven could easily have been predicted, but no one seemed prepared for the huge mass of humanity that came to swell this small port. Here at the imperial university of magic, most felt sure that they were safe. Within a year the town became a city, with walls large enough to keep out our fear, and terrify the neighbouring dukedoms. Within three years, an army stood at the gates, siege engines and ballista, infantry, cavalry and pikemen. On these walls stood the gathered ranks of all the mages of our time.
Never in all my years have I forgotten the horror of the next few minutes. All our rage and terror was poured out on those men, and whether they realised it or not, they were defenceless against our might. Fireballs and lightning and death rained from the sky. The earth rocked beneath their feet and split asunder, The sky turned black and the ground turned red. There was no retreat, no rout that day, because there were no survivors. Any thought of vengeance that I had died too that day.
There were people who cried out for more blood, just as the commoners had done before us. It would be nice to say that we were better educated, or that we were more noble, or attribute some higher motive to our final decision. The real reason was a mixture of fear, doubt and the terrible aftermath of death, plague.
Disorganised as we were at the time, a loose confederacy of hundreds of powerful individuals, we left the bodies to rot in the sun while we discussed our next move. Within two weeks we had reached an agreement, but the unearthly stench from the open graves did more than turn our stomachs, and people started dying in droves. By the time the healers had found a cure, nearly half of us were corpses, and the only fresh thing in the city was our grief. Had the city not been a port I am sure we would have starved, and the dream would have ended there. But the sea, and fresh fish, were only an oars breadth away.
*** to be continued ***
1/26/2005
Gilt around the edges.
Sometimes life forces you to ask questions like "Have I got my t-shirt the right way round?" or "Is that my car in that ditch?" and sometimes the really, really important things get missed. I would like to give a big apology to all the people I haven't written to for the last couple of months because I have been turning my t-shirt around.
My brother has just recommended me for a position at his work, which means that I might get an interview (wayhey!). He recommended much CV doctoring, and my sub-standard CV may be part of the reason that I'm not yet employed. It has now, thankfully, at last failed it's MOT (Maybe Overly Truthful).
I now know what drives people to go completely nuts, because an elf from the squirrel factory turned up on my doorstep this morning.
More blogging will follow ...
My brother has just recommended me for a position at his work, which means that I might get an interview (wayhey!). He recommended much CV doctoring, and my sub-standard CV may be part of the reason that I'm not yet employed. It has now, thankfully, at last failed it's MOT (Maybe Overly Truthful).
I now know what drives people to go completely nuts, because an elf from the squirrel factory turned up on my doorstep this morning.
More blogging will follow ...
