Where The Wind Blows?

I, Tyvernos, Oracle of Oriflamme and Diminutive Master of the Gods’ own Breaths — be they fair-smelling or foul — Commander of Blustery Gusts and the Heavens’ Hegemony — lay upon this page an accounting of my most recent foray into the upper echelons of social strata. A fortnight ago it was my distinct pleasure to make the acquaintance of a motley menagerie of merry men; they were disguised as a traveling troupe of troubadours. Bennu, it seems, is not without a sense of humor.

I sat astride my mighty charger, Otto von Bismarck, in a tavern of ill-repute when the shaggy stallion steered me from my milk and into the udder of a four-legged woman — diplomatic envoy to the entourage. Grudgingly, I obliged a cantankerous Bismarck and mounted my own slight-offensive. Two can play at that game! Doubting my credentials and the ignominious nature of my introduction and subsequent appearance *wink* the group’s de facto spokesman bade me produce my divinely inspired finger band. Alas, with one hand decidedly occupied my choice-digits remained by their siblings’ sides. The veracity of my claim upheld I was promptly welcomed into the fold — but not before an eavesdroppin’, eye-ogling, nosy proprietor laid his peepers on my prized possession.

Set’s area of influence is vast within the Wolfen Empire and this dog’s interest was piqued by the bone that had just wandered into his tavern on the back of a fluffy-furred, slobber-mawed, drool-jowled war-steed. While I’m never one to turn my nose upward at an audience the consensus “discretion is the better part of valor” easily surfaced. It was, perhaps, the only time on the evening that a consensus could be reached unanimously and without lid-leadening deliberation.

On that note…

It is a little-known phenomenon of the diminutive stature that we of vertical-challenge require exaggerated amounts of rest and relaxation and even pampering to achieve the incredible energy levels and seemingly endless reserves with which we meet the rigorous demands of adventuring. To those ignorant and unaccustomed the amount of napping and snacking I must endure is decidedly disproportionate and inordinately inversely proportional. If they only knew how exhausting it is to ride the lightning.

Which brings me to my next entry…

Some days later, after enlisting the aid of my new friend Oric Bellode (curious name for a Dwarf, no?) the menagerie made its way overland through the Dwarf’s namesake mountain pass to Avramstown only to collide with a family of humanoids. They were the hairiest savages I had ever lain eyes upon and felt, at first, to pity them and afford them charity and welcome. My overtures, however, fell on deaf ears and the barbarous brutes advanced on poor Otto. I produced a fistful of lightning and hurled snowball-sized, energized projectiles like David meeting his shaggy Goliath — and its family of gorillas — on the field of battle. My prowess, unequaled, eventually drove the humans back to their wilderness home. Otto had taken fright and wrangled the business-end of a crude weapon with his matted fur. Brave and noble war-steed, that one!

Later, when we finally stopped for the night, I took my leave of the group, tromped off with a new friend where we took our reprieve from the day’s strenuous exertions cuddled together. Odd custom to sleep in pairs but I can understand the need for warmth and the sharing of body heat in the frigid mountain pass. We would cuddle for what felt an eternity though I cannot be unerringly sure of how much time passed. I regained some of my mystical energy reserves but felt worn and bone-weary. Our restful slumber was rudely awoken by someone’s screaming! Upon opening my eyes I was treated to the full majesty of Father Winter! The cries of joy arose from all about the camp! Everyone was so excited! Wait. Were those nondescript cries for help? The companions were unable to see Father Winter clearly in the pitch-darkness; he looked terribly happy to see our merry troupe; I can only guess that he and his workshop workers were very lonely up here in the mountainous reaches of the North. My charitable contribution — in the name of such a holiday — was to bathed the entire area in True Sunlight and enlighten my comrades. It was the least I could do. I would that they shared the splendor and majesty of this mythical figure and his unabashed distribution of joyness and wonderment. Much mirth and merriment was had by all. He and his workers departed hastily to bring goodies to other boys and girls but, silly Father Winter absentmindedly left his limb in our custody. Silently, I vowed to return the appendage to its rightful owner…someday. Otto bowed in obeisance.

Humbly, I admit that I took my leave of my faculties for the next span. The temple and pyramid left their impression on the insides of my eyelids. I am considering my acceptance speech for the “MVG” award but it is my most earnest wish and ardent desire to appear completely surprised when it is finally bestowed.

Bennu, this I ask in your name,

Your diminutive savant…er, servant,

Ty
Posted on the 5th of Thoth, in the 67th year of the Empire.

Picture courtesy of The Golden Compass.

One Response to “Where The Wind Blows?

  • OK, that is the biggest pile of Horseshit, wrapped up in silk and drenched in perfume, I have ever read or seen. He sure can spin it though, love his POV…very interesting. Some similarities to Ursus, how he filters everything through his experiences.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *