There were storms that night. From where I lay out in the fields, my imagination made shapes of the darkening clouds--and I could swear I saw the faces of Ross and Radiman, gazes locked in some taciturn struggle of obstinance.
A distance from me some wildlife bleated and stole me from my reverie. I should be taking up shelter, I thought.
I made my way through treestalkers, brontos, blubbers, and swimmers, revelling in humanity's transcendant position each time my flock insisted on running about wildly attracting predators. Many of my brethren would scream in frustration, announcing the accumulation of potential enemies--but I knew the dangers of raising wildlife. Eventually I arrived at my cabin and balked: the gate was ajar.
Lightning clashed above me, silhouetting the two rivals; and as I was about to give up on the clouds entirely, I saw something move. ...fwump...fwump...fWUMP...FWUMP...wings...flappin g...some large bird, like the vultures outside Avalan. Wait...NO...more reptilian, scales all over, sending scintilating reflections of the lightning which illumianted it.
Thunder followed, and a gust of wind. The livestock moved nervously, bleating again, and the sound of gate creaking reminded me it had been opened. Something huge flew above, and something strange was happening below. Was a storm ever just a storm?
I locked up the animals and approached the door. It was open.
"Hello," I stammered nervously. I heard the cackling of a fire and felt a rush of warmth. The warmth was not to the degree as to suspect anything burning, but someone was making good use of the fireplace. I certainly never had need to waste wood in such a manner.
I walked purposefully towards the den--I had nothing to hide. It was my cabin after all. Reasserting this fact, I stepped a bit louder than needed, making my approach mellodramatically con****uous.
"Greetings, Woolgatherer, son of Hrothngarful, slayer of Korvelt the Maladjusted." These were the words the voice carried, but I heard only the voice. I say voice, but I am wrong. I would call my voice a voice. This was a choir of angels! It was a song that, even would it be sentencing me to my own terrible fate I would but quake at its beauty. And the bearer of the voice, a huntress in emerald leather, humbled even the most imaginative of my fantasies with her comeliness.
"umm...er...my cabin..."
"Still your uneasiness, grand-fated one. I am aware a simple gridfeed communication would have accomplished as much, but Oh the diminished magnificence! Let not the advances of modernity erase from your heart the love of lore and legend. Let not the idle fancies of popular tongue convince you of the faux-ease of abbreviated language. Life, as you and I share it, is a fleeting thing which must be cherished. If we remember every moment as important, what really does this optimization -- unbrazed brevity -- of linguistic intercourse accomplish?"
Well, If everyone talked like she sung, I'd have to agree, I thought. But the horrible corporation Omni-Tek had corrupted all that was good and beautiful. There might have once been orators, grandiloquent purveyers of drama in speech, but once you could CHOOSE genetic traits, why would you take anything aesthetic? The only genes you needed were utilitarian; anything else was an unecessary burden upon the finite constraints of eugenics. Imagine, an Atrox mining slave with a gilded tongue? Why, even a mote of charisma might lead to a inspiriational speach. And one well-placed speach among the fellow miners would be incite for revolt.
"You ponder deeply, and I acknowledge this. But I am afraid time does not afford me the luxury of acquiescing to silence so soon."
Even me, a Nanomage. Genetically engineered to react with the notum of our planet. Should I ever so much as leave the atmosphere I will die. This is the greatest crime of all in my mind, the crime that makes me keep fighting. I will take a stake in the fate of Rubi-Ka because I have nowhere else I can go. Maybe some people are content to quit fighting, or compromise, but this is my planet because my life is tied to it. I will never stop fighting until the freedom to determine its corse is mine.
"I see conversational reciprocity is still a distance off. I will continue:
"In the not-so-distant past, there lived a man. This man lived here on the planet Rubi-Ka (like you and I) and interacted with the world and the people around him. At first he was upset with some of the things people did and some of the things people said. It was like everyone was a physicist, for everyone was constantly discussing the rules and mechanics of the world they were in. And when they were not, they were insulting or degrading each other and never stopping to appreciate the beauty. In time, however, this man learned to see in these dialogues that which made them consistent and intriguing. They were not beyond, or apart from, Rubi-Ka--but were the very things that made Rubi-Ka what it is. In the rarest of moments he could even see beauty.
"At last, the gallant man put it on himself to convey this truth of reality to the rest of the world. He laboured tirelessly into hermetic solitude of night reconstructing his account of that which made Rubi-Ka real to him. He enveloped a pocket of truth to send off to the rest of the world.
"...but evil was afoot. Far in a distant land a DRAGON stirred. It growled in its lair and awoke from a long slumber. This dragon was named GREENY McGREENIT and he enforced the strictest rules of what was and what was not real.
"And so, as this man made his way to bring his visionary dialogues to the masses, the dragon beat his wings in the sky. And as this man tried to present tales of interest an excitement (and not without the slightest hint of humour), the dragon growled a terrible growl. And when in the end, the man refused to listen to the dragon's ancient vision of how reality should be presented, the dragon powered up his special attack, BEACON WARP, and turned that man into a beautiful woman.
"The man was horrified, for now he could not but unravel complete paragraphs and sentences like some sort of supercilious elitist, aloof from the people he had worked so hard to understand. Worst of all, the trust he had gained, the trust which allowed him to tell tales to the masses in tongues they would understand--was stolen.
"He -- now She -- had but one choice: Woolgatherer. Only the fabled Woolgather could construct a satire so poignant readers would have to wonder WHY THE HECK DID THIS MAN GET BEACON WARPED? Only when this question was asked, could the evil dragon, GREENY McGREENIT, be destroyed."
