Tales of the Heart

[SteveMaurer]

In Hlint last year, I was privileged to attend a storytelling held by a number of Bards and adventurers upon the topic well known in the holy temple of Ilsare: Love.   What follows is my true and complete copy of the stories that were told.

Because these stories are not mine, I choose to remain anonymous.  So though I am certain certain members of the temple will recognize my pen, I ask for them not to unmask this devoted, yet humble, priestess.


The event was structured by the Master of Ceremonies as a contest.  Each had to be a tale of aspect of love, romance, or desire.  Each also had to present some sort of moral.

The best tale awarded a prize.   The contestants, in order, were:

Andrew Reid, a deliciously handsome bard
Laaren LeMeele, a nearly angelic blonde human woman
Timulty Keel, an ancient human wizard, pretenaturally young
Zarianna, an adventuring sorceress
Jaelle Thornwood, yes - the Jaelle - legendary Sorceress and Illusionist
Morunas Khan Val, a disciplined, yet oddly peaceful dwarven monk
Darthire Zhalberen, a beautiful, yet alien, silver-metal haired elf

Each story follows, as best as I was able to scribe them....

[SteveMaurer]

"We have a story to tell of love, Alexander and I. This tale is from not so long ago. Sixty-six years to be exact.  This story is about love, but it is also about the Goddess of Love and Inspiration.

"You may think of Her as a warm and fuzzy thing that She rules the heart. But perhaps also you know Her, and the way She touches those She resides in.  You may think of Her as a warm and fuzzy thing that She rules the heart.  But perhaps also you know Her, and the way She touches those She resides in."

Scriber's note: there was a cat-call from the audience from an adventuress, one Tyra Dragonheart, at this point, about the "pretty boy" getting on with the tale; the Master of Ceremonies did not look pleased.

"As a dear friend has told me, Ilsare is not an easy Goddess to follow. To worship, yes, and to love, yes. But to follow Her means to follow your own heart and whatever lurks inside it.

"The story begins, not with a woman, but a man. He was a tall man, with skin dark from a life outdoors for he earned his living shaping clay.  Most would call him an artisan, but he would not have agreed. He was above all practical.

"Yes, he made vessels of clay that were outstandingly crafted, but this was a living, a trade, not an indulgent expression. Yes, he could draw, but only to sketch the design of the pots and dishes and urns that earned him his keep. Yes, he could paint, but this was to avoid having to pay someone to make fliers and signs.

"There were many who told him he was touched by Ilsare, but he scoffed. An empty headed elven Goddess who ruled the heart?  He could imagine nothing less like him, and nothing he was less likely to worship. Yes, she might inspire him, as they said. But inspiration was a far cry from devotion and love was a distraction.

As I said: practical.

"One evening as dusk seeped color from the clay he shaped, the man carefully wrapped unused clay in wet cloth and packed it away. He walked from the wheel in his rear yard toward his modest home.  And stopped short, foot hovering over the first step, for he heard music, beautiful music, yearning...a single violin with a voice as sweet as a nightingale, calling into the darkness for someone to understand."

Scriber's note: Andrew began a haunting, searching, melody, upon the violin at this point.

"The music shook him and he spun around, trying to see where it came from, but the evening wind took the notes and bounced them off the homes and flat spaces along the road so they came from everywhere, and nowhere.

"He went inside but remained unsettled. He decided to paint, intent on a new flier for his work, but he could not stop humming the tune the wind had brought him.

Scriber's note: Andrew's melody was extremely beautiful, one I cannot do justice to in words.

"And when his rough hands dipped brush into pot, and came to the easel he faced, it was not pottery that they painted.  It was a woman, with red streaks in her dark hair, eyes both brown and green, and dark skin made darker by the sun.  Her face was not that of a classic beauty, with her too-strong chin and thick eyebrows.

"But to his eyes, she was beautiful, as enticing and aloof as the tune he murmured to himself.  He shook himself and tried to start on his flier. But the music played endlessly in his head, urging him when he stopped, and so he painted her until she was done.

"Weeks passed, and the song did not return. His equilibrium recovered; he tucked away the woman's face and painted his flier, and shaped his clay.

"His friends laughed at his story, telling him he needed to take a wife and soon, and that Ilsare was no longer touching him but actively tapping him on the shoulder, but he waved his hand and ignored them.

"Until the very next night when the music came again, riding a gentle rain and singing with the patter of the drops.

Scriber's note: Andrew made a pitter pattering sound on his violin, like rain on a sill.

"He was undone, pacing and fighting the urge to draw her. He could see her, in the music! Her face, brows drawn together in concentration, full lips tracing a smile of longing as she played, the way the candlelight
highlighted her cheek and long-lashed eyes...

"When finally he succumbed, he attacked the canvas with a passion that frightened him, until, drained, he looked at the woman's face and wondered what madness propelled his hands and whether he could stand against it any longer.

Scriber's note: The music became quite passionate at this point.

"He made up his mind.  The music obliged, calling to him in the clear dusk air of the next evening.

"He tucked up the second picture into oiled cloth and followed the song, tracking it as it pulled on his heart, and found himself gazing on a very small cottage tucked into the rear yard of an old cart shop only a few blocks from his home.

"Amid broken wheels and planks of wood warped by rain and sun the music echoed, now light and airy, now deeper and darker, as if it were the only sound in the universe.

He stood, transfixed with desire -- and fear.

"What if? What if?  But finally, with shaky words of courage to himself, he stepped to the door and knocked.  That moment etched itself into his mind forever, that single moment when she answered. Her brow and cheeks, touched by the tallows in the candelabra; her lips, full, the color of a new rose; her eyes, brown and green flecked. She stepped back, shocked, trembling.

"You..." was all she said. And he saw then that she looked at him as if
she knew him, although he was sure he'd never seen her on the street.

"She picked up from a table her delicate violin, oak with rosewood inlays, and played. Standing that close, the song pierced through his soul. In that moment he knew why.

Scriber's note: The melody was quite haunting at this point.

"The song she played was his, somehow, and by the look of sudden desperation in her eyes he know it had been driving her to the edge of her sanity as her face had been him. He slipped the cloth from his painting and held it up as the music faded.

"She stared into his eyes, seeing him and so much more; he looked back, with an understanding that caused his heart to ache from the weight of emotion. And he knew that in the moment when she'd opened the door, he had opened one as well, giving his heart to the elven Goddess whose caress he had fought so long and the woman She led him to.

Scriber's note: The music crested and faded, and Andrew set aside his violin.   At this point, Andrew took out a painting.  That of a woman, with oddly colored eyes staring serenely off the canvas.

"That man was my grandfather, Liang Reid.  And the story I tell you is true.  The moral, as much as there is one, is simply this: your heart
will find a way."

Scriber's note: Andrew showed the painting once again, packed it, and bowed.  The crowd appreciated the painting, and the bard left the stage.

[SteveMaurer]

Once there was a small pond at the edge of a wood.  In the winter time
the pond was very still, but in spring everything was different.  Small
frogs hopped around croaking and the big bull frogs were even louder,
but there was one person who lived in this pond that could not jump nor
croak. A small tadpole named Tim. He listened all night long to the
hopping and croaking, feeling sorry for himself under the water.

One warm day he was wiggling amongst the water lilies when he met
Mr' Turtle.  He asked the Turtle, "Where are you going, Mr' Turtle?"

"To sit in the sun," was the turtle's reply.

Up, up and away the turtle swam, leaving little Tim alone at the
bottom of the pond.   Then... Miss Salamander swam by, and he asked
her where she was going.

"To sit in the sun," was the salamander's reply and away she swam.

Next came the Great Bullfrog, the biggest frog in the pond and Tim
asked, "Where are you going, sir?"

To which he replied... "To sit in the Sun."

Tim decided to follow...

Up he swam through the vortex the bullfrog left.    Tim watched the
Great Bullfrog climb out of the water and onto the bank, but could
not follow, as he had no arms or legs.

Tim was left in the pond with the snails and slugs and little fishes.
Everyone else was sunning themselves on the bank.

He was sad, as he could not join them

Some time later, the Great Bullfrog swam by and asked Tim why he was
wallowing at the bottom of the pond.  Tim told the Great Bullfrog he
was sad because he had no legs to jump out of the water with.

The Great Bullfrog asked him what he could do and Tim answered,
"swim"....... so Swim away said the Great Bullfrog.

Tim took this to heart.... and began swimming everyday
and one day Tim discovered something... a small arm was growing
from him.  Then a leg, then another, then his tail disappeared.

Suddenly he realized that by doing the things he cold do, he worked
to an end... and the end... was Sitting on the bank in the Sun.

He came to sit with the salamander and the Great Bullfrog, sunning
himself in the Lady's light.

One for your children, to teach then to persevere.


Scriber's note:  Laaren LeMeele smiled, and sat back down.   At this point, the Master of Ceremonies, asked wherein did love play a part.   Laaren LeMeele's response was, "Would the great Bullfrog not have encouraged him with out some love?".  The Master of Ceremonies did not seem particularly understanding of this, but a few in the audience understood the true point: it is a tale of parental love, for children.

[SteveMaurer]

The tale I have to tell is a simple, sad one, of romance and betrayal, heartbreak and..  Well, certainly not love unending, but something very near to it.

Like that of Master Reid before me, it shares the virtue of being true.

Unlike his, I bore witness to at least part of mine.  Although I suppose one could say that his was more.. personally significant, because without it, he would not be with us today.

Either way...  My story begins some few hundred years ago, in the city of Vehl.

The romance within this story is that of two inhabitants of the town - the then-Magistrate, Thomas Parson, and his blushing bride-to-be, whom I only ever knew as Judith.

Parson, in his role as magistrate of the town, and as a servant of Rofieren, had heard disturbing rumours about a practitioner of dark magics within the city.

As a loyal servant of the law, he sought to find this practitioner, and end his or her influence over the principality to which he had sworn his oath.  Months passed, with Parson and his men searching diligently for the one who cast this dark shadow upon the town.  All known magic-users were questioned, but to no avail.

Perhaps not entirely surprising, that - even then, Vehl was a large town, and the success of such searches were more based upon fortune than upon any form of skill.  However talented the searchers, such a quarry is difficult to find.

The tragedy was not, however, that the wicked spellcaster remained unfound - would that it were.

No, indeed, the tragedy was that she was - and was none other than Thomas Parson's betrothed, Judith.

One can only imagine the unenviable position in which he found himself.  Perhaps he was angered by her betrayal of his trust.  Perhaps he was heartbroken, wondering perhaps if their enamourment had been the result of some dweomer or phial.

Or perhaps, he was a man forced to choose between two loves - for as the lady LeMeele before me showed, there is more than one sort of love in this world.

There is the love of romance..
The love between family..
And.. the love of an ideal.  Of duty.  Of standing for what you claim to stand for, regardless of the cost.

Perhaps it was that last love which won his heart that day.  Or perhaps he was hurt, betrayed, and merely human.   He ordered her burnt upon the stake.

The day of the execution came, and the pyre was built.  She was tied up there, as the flames licked higher and higher, beginning to consume her robes.

She cried out, in fear, in pain, and at that moment Thomas Parson was once again forced to choose.

The love of his duty... or the love of his life.  That love, which means putting the concerns of another above your own.

Knocking aside burning logs, he swung his axe, and cut free his lady. But not before she was badly, badly burnt.   I cannot say I know what it was that went through her head then.    The  pain, the fear..  the relief?  But he had no choice, and she was banished from Vehl as soon as she was well enough again to walk.

She left the next week, with all of her worldly possessions upon her back, swearing deadly vengeance.

Parson eventually married..  someone else, of course. And then..  some twenty years ago today I found myself in Vehl.   Here is where I enter the story, for my friend, a paladin of Toran, had answered a call for help, and asked my assistance in the venture.

Members of the Parson family - descendants of Thomas - had gone missing.  Henry Parson, one of the town's record-keepers, had asked for help when his brother and young daughter had disappeared.  The brother had already been rescued, but was in bad condition.  The daughter...  Suffice to say, things looked grim.

We knew that whomever had abducted the girl was making their lair in one of the lesser-used crypts of Vehl, and so we descended, facing undead as we did so..

Until we came upon a coterie of vampires.

Scriber's note: there were gasps from the audience at this point, as the adventurer and master wizard recounted a story of dire danger as if it were little more than a casual stroll to the market.

And at their head... one who was powerful in magic, and whose alabaster elegance was marred by horrific burns down the side of her face.

Maddened by grief and rage, she imagined Henry Parson to be his long-departed great to the n'th grandfather.

And wished to trade his daughter for him, to be hers forevermore, and join her in undeath.

The battle that then raged was mighty and fearsome.  Three of my comrades fell, before Judith was once again consumed by fire - this time, truly fatally.

As the flames once again ate away at her flesh, she cried out the name... "Thomas!"

But no aid came.

Her journal revealed most of the rest of the story, and spoke of her growing madness..

Her obsession with retrieving the man she so had loved, and hated at once.

And thus did I learn this fact.

Scriber's note: The Wizard Keel did straighten, and with keen mind, put forth the moral of his tale...

The hardest, and truest part of love..  is to let go when hope has been lost.

[SteveMaurer]

In the not so distant past, in a place not so far away there was a young man who liked to paint.  Each day he would paint things and watch  them come to life on his canvas, but he wanted so much for his paintings to do more than sit in a room, where only he could be able to see them.

With each painting he brought to life people he knew, women he loved, places he'd been... but they were not shared with anyone.   He decided that maybe he needed to learn how to make his paintings a bit better.   He was afraid that maybe his art wasn't good enough to be displayed in public, so he sought out the best art teacher in the land.

The art teacher was very strict and told him to destroy everything he had ever created before, that none of them were good enough and he needed to start all over.

The young man was sad to destroy all of the places he loved, the people he'd known, but he said that he would, except for one: he could not bring himself to destroy a painting of a woman he loved.  

The art teacher thought he was silly, but let him keep this one painting. Each day the art teacher told the young man to draw circles.  Then he told him to draw squares.   The young man drew shapes until his arm was so tired every single day, but he did as he was told.  Then at the end of the day the art teacher told the young man to clean up the studio and go to bed.

So the young man did.

Finally, after a while he was able to learn how to precisely paint people
and places as if they were perfect replicas of what he saw physically
before him.

But the young man was sad.  His paintings were now beautiful and precise, but there was nothing special about them.

So the young man thanked the art teacher for everything he had taught him and went on his way.  The art teacher was pleased with what the young man had learned, even if he did not entirely think that the young man would ever really amount to much.  But he gave him a set of paintbrushes and sent him on his way.

As time went on the young man continued to go about painting in the manner of which he had been taught.  He continued to paint people and places and things, but still he yearned to make something that meant something.

He learned of a woman who had meant a lot to some people.  She wasn't always perfect, and she wasn't always nice, but this woman was special to people.  Something about her made people feel better about themselves.  They looked at her and knew that they could accomplish anything, simply by the way she lived her life.  

And then tragically, this woman died.  

All of the people who had looked up to her were sad, but they carried on.  So the young man decided that he would give the people back something that they had lost.  He decided he would paint the woman that had inspired them so much in her lifetime.

So he started on a blank canvas.  
First he drew a circle.
Then he drew an oval.
Bit by bit he sketched out the shapes of the woman in charcoal until it looked exactly like she looked in life.
And then he painted her.

When he was finished with the painting he looked it over and he was overcome with sadness, for again, this painting was nothing special.  It was not unique.  It was simply another copy.

So he set aside his painting and he went to the woman who was pictured in the painting he could not destroy.

He expressed to her that his painting was a failure.  That he was a failure because his painting was nothing special.  That it would never be able to inspire the people who had loved the woman so much.

His friend looked at the painting and looked at him and then smiled.

"You don't love this woman like they did, do you?" she asked him.
The young man shook his head.
"I admit, I did not like the woman very much when she was alive.  She was not very nice to me," he told her.

The woman smiled at him and said "Well then how do you expect to paint her if you do not love her?"

The young man was confused.  "Do I have to love her?  Can't I just love
what she meant?"

His friend shrugged and said that it was possible.  But then looked over him and noticed that he was all hunched over when he looked at the painting, and his brow was furrowed, and he looked very very unhappy.

So his friend poked him.  She told him that he used to love to paint, but ever since he tried so hard to be perfect that his paintings were no
longer special.  The young man thought about this, and relaxed.

Scriber's note: Zarianna expressively showed the tenseness and relaxation of the painter in the presence of his true love.

He threw out his first attempt at his painting.  He said he no longer cared if it was perfect, and that he would try to paint from his heart

So he started.  This time he did not draw a circle and an oval.  He swept his brush across the page in delicate strokes as he felt they should be placed.    He used colors that seemed to dance off the page and reflect the light that came from his own soul.  When he finally finished the painting he looked at it, and the painting itself seemed to come alive in and of itself

He had created a masterpiece.

Not because of circles and squares and techniques... but because he loved what he was doing.

[SteveMaurer]

Scriber's note: It is impossible for this poor priestess to do justice to the magics  that were done during this portion of the evening. I can only describe them as best I can.

The candelabra's were ordered dimmed, and as soon as they were, the Jaelle raised her arms.   Instantly, the room darkened even further, and the roof of the Surge seemed to vanish, replaced by a stunning view of the night sky.

But this was not the sky as we see it today.  There were no moons, and the constellations are but a scattering of stars, and many of the familiar patterns missing.    As the sorceress told her tale, everything she described was shown upon the perfect illusion she effortlessly wove.

"Long ago, when the world was very young, before men and elves and dwarves walked the lands, before the Selemaian and the T'oleflor, before even the dragons came to the world, the sky was empty, dark and cold.

The stars disappeared, briefly leaving only black.

"The first god and goddess, whose names have been lost to time, came together after making all the many worlds to create light with which to illuminate their creations.

Ephemeral figures moved in the shadows above.
 
"The god gathered his magic and cast up a fireball into the sky so mighty that it could light the world.

An illusion of a fireball appeared in the center of the sky above the tables.

"He saw how brightly his light shone down and that it would burn forever and he was content and passed beyond the veil.   It was the goddess who lingered long enough to see that this fiery sun, great as it was, could light but half the sky.

"The goddess's magics were different than the god's, and she could not create a second sun, but she was loathe to leave half the world in darkness.

A version of the world appeareared in midair in the room, the sun hanging above it.

"And so the goddess gathered up her breath and blew upon the sun, sending it spinning around the world so that each land might feel its warmth for a part of each day.

 It started to circle lazily.

"She then gathered forth the brightest gems from the heart of the earth, the most luminescent pearls from the mysterious depths of the newly born sea and the first crystalline dewdrops to reflect the light of the sun ...

Each was shown in turn..

"... and with her warm breath she woke them and made them shine, then scattered them across the skies, so that their gentler light might be a comfort, even in the night.

"When this was done, she too passed beyond the veil to join her lover, the first god.

The other ephemeral figure disappears from the scene.

"Time passed, as it is wont to do, and the sun continued to lazily circle the world as the goddess had intended. It lit the lands below, bringing bright days, and when it passed on, continuing its neverending journey, the stars remained behind and shone with a gentler radiance so that the world might never know utter darkness.

"However, magic is a chaotic and unpredictable thing ..

When they had created the sun and the stars, the god and goddess had also cast their own reflections into these celestial objects.

The sun burned with the god's passion, and soon enough the sun grew tired of his solitude, hungering for company.

And so the sun chose the brightest of the pearls that the goddess had
cast deep into the sky and brought that pearl down to be with him.

One of the stars shoots down from the sky in an arc, to land beside the sun.

Her pale beauty pleased him, and he kept her always at his side, and was once again content.

Orn — for indeed this celestial pearl was Orn herself — was less content.  At first she was pleased to have been chosen from among all the stars, and intoxicated by the fiery embraces the sun bestowed upon her.

Her blush at the passion he raised in her became the rosy dawn, and the shimmering afterglow of their lovemaking became the sunset and the violet hues of twilight.

Soon enough, though, she began to long for her sisters. She longed to see them again, but bound as she was to the Sun's side she could never catch even a glimpse of them in the sky.

An image of the stars appeared muted above, as if shadowed, unable to be properly seen.

"And so she went to her lover, and begged him to give her leave to visit her sisters

“Light of my heart,” she pleaded, “let me journey through the sky for a night, and visit my sisters. And I will return to you in the morning.”

The sun, magnanimous and indulgent in his love, agreed to let his young mistress visit her kind, and granted her leave to travel the other way around the world for a day, and when they met again he would reclaim her.   And so that is what she did, and Orn left his side, and rejoiced to be able to visit again her sisters and friends amidst the night sky.

The illusion of the sun slipped from view, disappearing into a sunset against one wall.  All that remained is the night sky above with the larger, whiter moon and the stars, bright again.

"Only one did she not recognize, and whispered to the Jewel of the Ice, asking who she was.

“She?” the north star replied, as Orn gestured to the silvery light. “She came after you left to be with the sun.  We are none of us quite certain where she was born. Perhaps the first goddess shed a tear to see you lonely, and it slipped through the veil?”

One point of silver, especially bright, winked at the highest point in the room

"However the new light was born, it did not really matter, in the end. Something about the music of her silvery glow called to Orn, and when she returned to the Sun's side and once again began her lazy circles with him around the world she often found her mind straying, filled with thoughts of this divine light.

"Soon, too soon, she once again begged the sun to give her leave to visit her sisters in the sky, and though this time he frowned at the request, he gave her leave again.

The white moon returned to the sun and left again.

"No love affair is born of a moment, whatever the bards and poets say.
They are born of many moments, all strung together like pearls on a chain ....

"There is the moment of first attraction, and then the first step toward one another.   The first casual glance, the first accidental brush of hands ... a score of these moments are what bring two people together, and it was the same for Orn and silver Ausir.

"More and more often, Orn begged leave of the sun to visit the night, and Ausir came down one night in the arc of a falling star from the sky, giving up her place in the heavens just to be closer to her.

But ah, the dangers of affairs—they say that we are blinded by love, and indeed perhaps we are, because we never see the day coming when it all comes crashing down.

The sun, growing suspicious of  his lover's distant manner and her increasing absences, sent his shadows to spy upon her.  Unseen against the black velvet of the night sky, they spied upon Orn and Ausir in a moment of passion, and brought word back to the sun of Orn's betrayal and treachery.

The sun was livid, his rage hot.

Orn felt it scorch her as he confronted her, and demanded that she confess all. And in time she did, unable to stand the punishing heat of his anger. The weather in the world below grew hot as well for a time, and a swathe of land was burned into a desert as the sun pondered what he would do.

Finally, he turned to Orn.

The rays of the sun, once again hung in the air, seem to curl outwards with an illusion of scorching heat.

“I brought you down from the heavens, chose you from among all the stars, and you have repaid me thus? You scorn me, for her? Well you shall see her no more, my pearl ..” the familiar caress of words had become twisted.

“For do you know what I have done? I have cast your shadow upon her face. No more shall she shine in the heavens. Never again will you bask in her silver light.  This is the price of your betrayal.”

A shadow seemed to pass over the smaller, more silver moon, until it disappeared from the scene utterly.

"Orn wept then, and when she left the sun let her go. And though she searched the black velvet of the night sky, indeed it seemed as if Ausir had disappeared completely.

"She asked all the other stars, but none knew where she might be. Long she searched, until she had to admit that the sun had done as he had said, and hidden her behind her own shadow somewhere, and that she would see her no more.

And realizing the truth in this, she finally wept.

A moon's tear is a curious thing, and there is magic in it, as there is in moments of such emotion.

The moon seemed to shimmer, as if crying.

"When Orn wept for her lover, her first tear fell to the earth.  As she wept to know her love was hidden from her, her tear became an object of powerful magic, that would allow any who held it to see with scrying beyond the normal limitations of sight, so that no one might know the powerlessness she felt, not to be able to see what she most loved.

A region of the black where the silver moon had shone seemed to glimmer darkly as well.

"And when Ausir wept, hidden behind her lover's shadow, nearly close enough to touch, Ausir's first tear had magic in it too.   She prayed that none might suffer to be watched and judged, as they had been, and her tear's magic became that which could shield one from an unwanted gaze.

Two illusionary tears seemed to fall, one light, one dark.

"Perhaps it was fate just then, that the god and goddess chose to peek through the veil and look in on their creations.  

The god frowned, and whispered how he thought Orn should not have strayed, but the goddess, who knew a little more of chaos and the chaotic heart, chastised him.

“We cannot blame them for falling in love, any more than we can blame the sun and stars for shining, or the tides for turning or the wind for blowing. Such things are beyond their control, and also beyond ours, for this is what it means to have free will. Not even gods and goddesses can control the pattern.”

They quarreled over it for a time, but eventually the god bent a little and agreed to distract his first and brightest child, and when the sun was not looking the goddess shifted Orn's shadow, just a little, so beautiful Ausir shone out the edge of it—a slim crescent of silver.

Just a crescent appeared now, its light stronger than before.

Even the gods and goddesses do not like to meddle too much in the affairs of their children, though.   This small intervention was enough, though, for it gave the moons a chance.

And though the sun has since gone back to trying to cover them with each other's shadows ....

The moons started to speed up, circling through the "sky" above and their own phases, in some kind of graceful choreographed celestial dance.

.... one can still see them, even now, darting across the sky and always slipping out from under them.

And the moral of this tale, you might ask?
Well, perhaps there is more than one in it.

That lovers seeking to hide their romance do so better under the cover of night than the watchful eye of the sun, who still is unkind to such forbidden affairs ...

That the arc of a shooting star in the sky means that someone has just fallen in love ...

And perhaps most importantly, that even the gods and goddesses can neither predict nor control the unruly and chaotic beauty of love, or the path a heart will take to another.

Love remains that which stubbornly continues to blossom year after year in the most infertile soils.

[SteveMaurer]

"I am no folk of great Lores... nor an amazing storyteller with fine and tuned words.

"I am as well not of great gatherings and mess... but I felt the need of saying what I will say... to raise some laughs, at least.   For the smallest laugh can aid to cure the deepest wounds... wounds that can be made as well from love.

So what I will speak of, here tonight.../
it is no gruesome tale of old.../
It has no fairies... no royal knight.../
It is in fact somewhat quite bold./

For it could have started... here!/
Where a lizardling-at-armsssss...
Reckless brute one, with no fear,/
fell in love for a mage... and her charmsssss./

She was beautiful and bright!/
Like a dawn of endless light!/
But he was dummy as a bull.../
As much at-arms as he was fool! /

His name was and her name is.../
I don’t know... and you don’t care./
But he followed her on his knees,
for such love he could not bear. /

Scriber's note: the monk then started blowing out the stage candles, making the Master of Ceremonies quite uncomfortable.

Though when she clearly saw his silliness.../
She ran away to beyond the lands/
Where dreadful terrors, ghosts and illness,/
Rip the grounds with undead hands./

But then the enchanted lizard man,/
Foolish and blind to all around,/
Drawn his sword and mightily ran.../
over the dead ones on the ground.

He felt ready to test his life./
In the quest for his true love./
Who’d become is perfect wife,/
Perfect curves... a shiny dove.

And thousand hands began to rise/
As miles of earth began to fall/
He was indeed not nearly wise/
As his head was about to roll.

But he came to feel the pain/
Of his tail being ripped apart!/
So he drove mad and insane.../
Only guided by his heart. /

So in his last moments of fate/
He truly saw the final thread./
Which is the moral that came too late.../
 “After the butt... you lost your head.”/

Scriber's note: Once again the Master of Ceremonies asked where Love played a part, and the dwarf's answer was this: "Love came through the mages charms, of course. Not all loves are true... and the most blind fail to see that."

[SteveMaurer]

Scriber's note: I was unsure how exactly to title this story.  Nothing seems to fit perfectly.  The elf who took the stage, though, is a rare gray elf, with silver-metal hair.   She is beautiful, yet I cannot help but be concerned for the elf who falls in love with her.  This is her story:

"I speak of another tale, one more that has to do with relationships than love.

It concerns one Kar'ititi.   Who was a Drider.

Now since, perhaps not all know what a Drider is, I shall explain: it is a half-elf, half-spider, created as a sort of punishment for those who displease the lord of Spiders, Who I shall not name here, but many of you know.

And this Drider was indeed, for all his other failings, still a dutiful worshiper of the Lord of Hate.   Which meant that his heart was infertile soil indeed for true love to grow in.

But, that did not mean he has lost his desires.   For the transformation does not take away that.   And Kar'ititi found himself needing to pick and choose mates that he would never have considered before.

Of these, he found two female Driders.  One, was Ty'llian, who was not abandoned by her family.  And thus rich, healthy, and desirable.   But... she was also not meek.  Nor weak.   And one thing remains true of many species: weak males hate strong females.  They are afraid of them.

The other was For'nan, who was meek and poor, and easy to dominate.  But also inferior - ugly.  So in truth, in making his choice, between wealth and pleasure of his kind, he desired neither fully.

And so finally came upon his other, true, love.   Not a drider.   A spider.

She was strong, and healthy, and powerful.  But, as she had no vocal chords, he also never found that he had to put up with her telling him he was wrong, which he often was.   And so, seemingly at least, she was weak, and easy to dominate.

What more perfect a mate could this drider ask for?

Well, he fed her, and wooed her... as he suspected spiders were wooed.  And given that he was far more attracted by her underside than her face, he finally did manage to mate with her.   And took her in his loving... or at least aroused... embrace.

As she did him....

And then, he discovered something about this perfect mate that he did not know about before.    For while she could not speak, and was smart for her kind, she needed sustenance.

And when they mated, she decided to consume him, then and there.

He struggled of course, but the poison took hold, and darkness enveloped him, and his spirit was freed.  Freed to be an even more menial servant of the Lord of Hate....

But that is not the end of this story.  For the spider had been far smarter than he had ever imagined.  She had known what he wanted, and had assented to it, thinking all the benefit was for her.

But it was not.

For as she consumed him, his lower parts continued to mate, and his seed filled her womb to overflowing.   Enough so that the poor spideress was left with brood for the rest of her life.

The little beasts kept coming and coming!   Her body worked overtime, making more spiders, and she had to take care of them all, until she finally was simply unable to go on, and her own hungry children drained her, for the last bit of sustenance.
 
It is believed by some, that this unholy mating produced spiders who are able to cast spells.   But that is not the point of this tale.   Instead, we have two morals we can get from it:

First, if you are male, select a mate who does not like you simply because she wants to suck you dry.

And second, if you are female, while there will come a time when you absolutely positively want to kill your mate....

Scriber's note: The elf raised an admonishing finger

"Do not actually do so.

Inevitably, you will be stuck taking care of the children for the rest of your miserable life, while his spirit goes free to haunt someone else."


Scriber's note: At the end of the recitation of this story, half the audience was green.  Such was the discomfit, Jaelle felt tried to lighten the mood by making a heckling joke about making sure to buy a girl a complete dinner before making any amorous advances.   Yet the elf who told this tale seemed to be perfectly at ease, as if this was something to say to children.

Oddly enough, as disquieting as it is, this story is exceedingly compelling, especially to those who have felt the sting of an imperfect romance.  So I am not sure how to categorize it.   I think this tale is allegorical, or perhaps a piece of wickedly droll humor.   I certainly hope so.  I pray to the goddess that it is so.