Quont's Question 23: How will you be spending the holidays?

Upon the eve of Christmas we shall go and cut the tree,
And drag it to the living room and set it up with glee.
The glass and paper ornaments, the gleaming silver balls
Will all be hung the twigs among until we've decked our halls.

The family all will gather round, including cats and dog.
I'll read the Dylan Thomas book; they'll sip at their eggnog.
And though they're grown, the boys will head for bed because they know
That Santa never visits until up the stairs they go.

And we shall have a jolly time, and we shall have our love,
And we shall have a blessing shining on us from above.
It's a feeling worth most everything that we shall ever own.
There'll be laughter, light, and music when our boys come home.

(and then I expect we'll just kick back and relax the rest of the week until it's time to get really wasted New Year's Eve.)

Quont's Questions 22: What does your name mean?

What a fascinating question. I've always been intrigued by the origins and meanings of words, and think I might have made a passable etymologist if I had put my mind to it.

In any case, let's consider my Mernac persona first. "Canu" come from the Welsh word meaning "to sing," which I considered highly appropriate. "Baraksson" should be self evident; break it down into its components..."Barak's" and "son." You might refer then to me as "the Singing Son of Barak," but that sounds a bit too stage-y, don't you think?

My scribe/artist's name is "Morgan." This also is Welsh, and it means "one who comes from the sea." There's a certain harmony (or possibly just inevitability) in that as well; his mother tells him that she named him for a Welsh pirate. In all honesty though, considering his preferences at the beach, she should have called him "one who walks the sands." Peace.

Lucia's Art-Blogging Question 3

What do you fear?

This is in response to my sister Lucia's third art-blogging prompt, entitled "What do you fear?". I fear this man intensely for his ignorance, his pig-headedness, and his cavalier disregard for nearly all that is right. My biggest fear is that I will wake up on the morning of January 20, 2009, to discover that he is still there.



If you care to see the full-sized version of this image, simply click the pic to the right and a new browser window will open. Have a great day, and keep on singing.



Canu

Lucia's Artblogging Questions #2

If you were asked what you came into this world to do, how would you answer?

This is in response to my sister Lucia's second art-blogging prompt, entitled "If you were asked what you came into this world to do, how would you answer?". I really didn't need to think twice about this one; it is a question I have answered many times over the years.



If you care to see the full-sized version of this image, simply click the pic to the right and a new browser window will open. Have a great day, and keep on singing.



Canu

Favorite cartoon characters? Oh, come on...

My Uncle Quont's begun to dote
On days that long have passed.
I feel I really must take note,
And fear he's sinking fast.

How long before he will imbibe
The juice of many prunes?
For now he wants us to describe
Our favorite of cartoons!

Now many years ago, you bet,
Though I am shamed to say.
I'd sit before the t-v set
And waste a Saturday.

But nowadays the cartoon shows
Pale imitations are.
They can't compete at all with those
When Mickey was a star.

And so I seldom watch the stuff,
Nor view their merry capers.
I get my chuckles right enough
Within the funny papers.

I do have a few favorites among the plethora of printed cartoons; some of them, alas, no longer running. These would include: Calvin & Hobbes, Bloom County (somewhat adequately replaced by "Opus"), and "Doonesbury". It's at least remotely possible that this is a political statement. So be it.

Quont's Questions: What is your favorite song?

Quont's Question 20: What is your favorite song?

My favorite song is "Changes" by Phil Ochs. If you're unfamiliar with it, there is a short video clip of Phil below, though not the entire song unfortunately.

If you want to hear the entire song, go here. The young man plays it fairly well, though he is not the singer Phil was.

Phil took his own life in 1976, a victim of depression and alcoholism. During his career, which spanned the '60s and early '70s, he wrote some of the most poignant and evocative songs ever to arise from the peace-and-protest folk scene. I miss him.

I am a(n)...

This is in response to my sister Lucia's first art-blogging prompt, entitled "I am a(n)...". Some people will already have seen this image, I know, but I don't think I can improve on it (and secretly am rather proud of the way it turned out).



If you care to see the full-sized version of this image, simply click the pic to the right and a new browser window will open. Have a great day, and keep on fooling around.



Canu

Quont's Question 18: Inspired

The times when I'm extremely tired
Are often when I'm most inspired.
Exhaustion seems to work for me;
That, and coffee or strong tea.

I get each night, I do confess,
Four hours' sleep, no more, no less.
I sit until the hours wee,
Bathed in the light of my P-C.

Ideas do come and ideas go.
They flicker, flit, and sometimes glow.
I grasp them as I sit enrapt,
And clasp the few that I have trapped.

Sooner or later one will shine,
Declare itself devoutly mine,
And show the path to move along
To write a story or a song.

By gleaming moon or shimmering star,
These my Muses were and are.

A Ticklish Situation

This question leaves me in a pickle.
Do you think I'd be fun to tickle?
Ticklish is as ticklish does.
I sometimes wasn't, sometimes was.
Much depends upon my mood.
At times it makes me come unglued.
Other times I'll calmly sit
And tell you that you're full of it.
"Full of what?" you ask. Who knows?
Perhaps what fed this lovely rose.
Tickle the rose and sure as you're born
Your fingertips will find the thorn.

By the way, my uncle Quont's Castrati are very, very ticklish. If you don't believe me, try it yourself. They'd love for someone to stop by and give them some test tickles.

By the Fathers! Quont hath asked yet another question!

Question 15 in the Never-ending Saga: What Drives Me Crazy

What things are most likely to to drive this one crazy
Or bonkers or stark raving mad?
Air fresheners scented with essence of daisy
When they're out of season.
There's really no reason.
This may sound like treason,
But I don't find them pleasin'
They smell most remarkably bad.

What things are most likely to drive this one crazy
Or whacko or way round the bend?
If my audience doesn't remember to praise me
I've got certain standards
They should wave my banners
(And not throw ba-nan-ers;
That's awfully bad manners.)
At least have the grace to pretend.

What things are most likely to drive this one crazy
Or nutty or over the edge?
Punctuation uncalled for; now that one just slays me.
What they've done to the tale:
Why, the narrative's pale.
And the story lacks breath.
It's been "comma'd" to death.
I'll, never, do, that, I, do, pledge,

The answer to the Happy Place and everything in the universe is Question 14

I offer you my happy place.
'Twill put a smile upon your face,
As oft it does upon my own,
When I've been sad or all alone.

It lies not far away, you see.
I carry it around with me.
Nay, not from choice; I cannot choose.
It's just a place I may not lose.

Where'er I travel, far or near,
I turn to look; it still is here.
It matters little where I stray.
My happy place ne'er goes away.

If I on leafy bed would lie
My happy place doth satisfy.
Or if I'd camp in bower or dell
My happy place still serves me well.

"Where is this happy place?" you ask.
Would you this scribbler take to task?
Perhaps, like me, you'll come to find
'Tis lodged securely in the mind.

Uncle Quont's Question 12: Shocking!

The shocking-est thing that ever I did
I'd have you to understand
Occurred when I was no longer a kid
But not yet considered a man

'Twas back in the day when the color of grey
For the most part left my head alone
Back when my hairdo wore a dark ebon hue
No glimmer of white, it was black as the night
Like a shiny obsidian stone

Near the end of October a good friend stopped over
Exclaiming most hearty "Let's go to a party!"
And I swiftly agreed, for she had it well planned
That we'd dress ourselves up as a glitter rock band

So I spread in my hair a concoction most gooey
To lighten it, thinking I'd ape David Bowie
She told me 'twould wash away most easily
By applying shampoo maybe two times (or three)

Author's note on the party: A most righteous time was had by all!

Next day I shampooed, then I did it again
And I did it again and again and again
Then looked in the mirror and let out a "Yipes!"
The effect I'd achieved looked just like tiger stripes
With deep shades of black and the brightest of orange
(And we all know nothing rhymes with orange, but what the hell...)

Anyway

"In six weeks it'll wear out" she said, but she lied
For six long months I wore the do I'd applied
To the barber shop then with no least little doubt
It was now long enough for to cut the stripes out

Author's apology to those who may like striped hair: Sorry. Nothing wrong with it really, but it's just not me. Of course, it did attact a certain female a few months after the Halloween party who was fairly intrigued to find out what was wrong with this dude. She hung around long enough trying to figure it out that eventually she agreed to marry me. Next month we will have been together 30 years. So, me or no, shocking or no, I've no regrets. Peace.

Answer to # 10 of my uncle's interminable queries...

Simple Pleasure

What is it that truly I treasure,
That defines to my mind simple pleasure?
Some folks would choose pot
Or sex that is hot,
But for me it's perpetual leisure!

(which, when you really stop and think about it, is the best answer, as having it gives a body time for ALL SORTS of pleasures...)

Quont's Blogging Question # 9

Dining among the Mernacians

To dine with any Mernac folk
I'm surely more than ready,
Provided that the fare includes
Large helpings of spaghetti!

How to defeat a creative block

A creative block
Need not be a lock.
The Muse is just biding her time,
As you must bide yours
'Til she opens the doors
To show you the hint of a rhyme.

You may have to swerve
If she's tossed you a curve.
Take your time to observe
Ere you lift up your pen.
If you've emptied your plate
Or erased the whole slate
Then you just have to wait
'Til she fills them again.

Banging your head
On the foot of your bed
Accomplishes nothing, dear friend.
It's patience you need
'Till your Muse plants the seed,
And all will come "write" in the end.

A Goal in My Life (in partial fulfillment of the requirements of Questions From Quont 101)

A goal that I've considered for nearly all of my life,
One that I'll pursue once I am through with real world strife,
Is to redesign my yard with a theme that pleases me.
It will be a mythic garden that's conceived in fantasy.

In the center of the area that's shaded by the mountain,
I'll dig a fair reflecting pool and top it with a fountain.
The grounds that do surround it will be far from ordinary.
They'll be guarded most securely by my choice of statuary.

A wooden footbridge cross the pool, it will be watched, my friend,
By a matching set of gargoyles, squatting down at either end.
It's all inside my head, but there remains a single hitch.
A pagoda or gazebo? I just can't determine which.

But when at last it's finished, yes, when my labor's through,
I'll simply sit and take my ease, admiring the view.

My Mernacian Vacation

My Mernacian Vacation

If e'er I wish to offend my mother
I'd vacation with The Other
In His dark and dusty hall
I would surely have a ball

To light mom's face up like the sun
I would vacation with The One
Flowers bloom and birdies sing
Isn't that a lovely thing?

But to have whate'er I want
I must vacation with Lord Quont
Heav'nly hordes of succubi
Bring a twinkle to mine eye

Yes, if I want to please my phallus
I'll book a tour of the Marble Palace

What Drew Me to Mernac

I had received the original emailed promotion that was sent out when Mernac was getting started, and I did sign up at that time. However, I didn't feel as though I had time to explore the site at that time, and consequently didn't really become involved.

A couple months ago, on a whim more that any other reason, I popped in and started looking around. I was immediately captivated by what I found...the friendly and welcoming spirits of other members, making me feel right at home from the word "go". I discovered that there is so much more of interest to do in Mernac than on other sites where I've had involvement. It's awfully hard to beat 10,000 years of history. So I expect I'll hang around.

New Music Forum Now Open at Mernac

It gives me great pleasure to announce in my capacity as Music Disciple to the Dark Lord Barak the opening of The Jukebox Joint (Musicians' Lounge).

This is a new subforum at Legends of Mernac, the premiere fantasy site on the Web. In this forum there will be opportunities for musicians of all sorts to share resources and experience, as well as to participate in some upcoming musical developments planned for Mernac.

I hope you'll take the opportunity to visit the Joint very soon! C'mon, it'll be fun!

Canu Baraksson
Music Disciple to Barak, Father of Darkness

The Tale of Canu Baraksson - Conclusion

The room was dimly lit, smoking torches hanging in sconces set in the walls. I remember the smell of acrid sulfurous fumes, thick and heavy, nearly setting me to coughing. Through the thinning soles of my badly-worn sandals I could feel the heat radiating from the stone floor, stones that should have been cold, but somehow were not. And how well I still recall my first sight of His face, Him whom I have come to love and revere above all others.

When first I caught sight of Him, He was seated at ease upon an immense black throne, intricately carved from a single block of obsidian. I noted that something appeared to be wrong with His aura. Though it still shone brightly about him, the edges had begun to darken and turn in upon themselves, almost like a piece of spoiled fruit. He rose and gazed solemnly at me. I was frightened and dropped trembling to my knees, but He came to me and raised me up, called me His son, and by many diverse proofs convinced me that it was so.

"You shall serve me well as a good son serves his father," He intoned, and I found myself nodding in agreement. "I shall make of you a Disciple of Music, and such shall be your power that all who hear you play shall find, however briefly, peace in their souls."

So began my service to the Lord Barak, He who came to be known as Father of Darkness. He never treated me other than well, and I thrived upon the tasks He set me to accomplish. One thing, however I longed to do yet could not; there seemed to be no relief from His melancholy humors. Ever He mourned for Siberlee, and it nearly maddened me that I could provide Him no relief from that sorrow. I even attempted to bring peace to Him through the use of the power
He had bestowed upon me, sometimes playing for Him long into the night. But I could bring no peace to His soul, for He had yielded it up that His beloved Siberlee might have her heart's desire.

============================================

It was not difficult to notice that an atmosphere of tense disagreement existed between the Fathers and the Mothers, and through the season of 665 this grew stronger with each passing day. However, in my youthful ignorance I paid it little mind; in any case the training I was receiving in my father's house occupied nearly all of my time, and many a night I stumbled off late to find my bed, my eyes scarce able to focus and my trembling legs betraying me. Consequently I was taken almost completely by surprise when matters came to a head and open warfare erupted between them. It was a time of great confusion, and I remember little of the details. My attention was immediately caught and held though as it became evident that the Mothers and their followers were engaged in hurling the Fathers forcibly from the heavens. I rushed into the melee, hoping against hope that I could aid my father.

Too late, too late I came to the scene, cursing myself for having paid so little attention to the events leading up to this. Barak, surrounded and overpowered by the throng, was being inexorably pushed out even as I arrived. I saw Him slip; I think I may have screamed. Perhaps if I could reach Him my hand, I thought, I might pull Him back up again. Just as I reached the brink, He plunged into the abyss, His face a tortured mask, and from His mouth came a long drawn howl of denial. I had only time to notice that it was Siberlee in the lead of those who had pushed Him; then I stumbled over my own feet and, following my father, pitched headlong into the depths. Despite my perilous situation I could not help but wonder: had She actually pushed him? It seemed so unlikely, yet clearly my father thought it so.

How long we fell I never could say with certainty...a day?...a week?...a minute? All time seemed to be one time, the same. Yet I knew well when I had stopped falling, and my landing upon the Underworld floor was no gentle one. The rock was adamant, unforgiving, and the impact was brutal. I felt as though every bone in my body had been pulverized instantly, that my body itself was turned to jelly.

Blackness took me and I lay for a time unseeing, unhearing, almost uncaring. At length though I sensed somehow that Barak was standing over me. I forced my eyes to open; no mean task for they were already encrusted with blood. My blood. My sight was dimming swiftly, but I heard my father's words.

"Come back to me, my son. I shall not allow you to go into the great darkness yet. There is much work to be done, and I will not lose so good a son and servant. Come back!" I know not what He did, but as He spoke I began to feel stronger, more whole, and a strange tingling raced through me as my body rapidly mended itself of its damage. "Now, my son, come back," came His voice again. "Arise!"

I found that I could rise, and did so. I had known my father to be exceptionally powerful, but did He control even Death? It was then that I realized that although I was standing, seeing, hearing, I was no longer breathing, nor could I feel the familiar beating of my heart. Not living then...nor dead. Undead, I pondered, fitting the word to my mouth. An Undead.

As time passed and I grew accustomed to my new form of being, I discovered that the gift Barak had given me also had changed. I could still bring peace to the souls of those who heard me play. I could just as easily bring about such sickness of the soul that any listener would fall into a decline and perish.

It was, my father told me, as fate would have it. There is never any real choice, merely the illusion of choice. And if choice should be reality? Already I had made mine.

Here ends the Tale of Canu Baraksson, who serves the Father of Darkness faithfully to this day.

The Tale of Canu Baraksson

I have seen great wonders in my time, marvelous occurences to thrill the heart and soul or to drive one mad. I have seen the joy reflected from the face of the Mother, Siberlee, as she gazed for the first time upon her newborn child. I have glimpsed the heavens of the gods, and seen the Fathers driven from its grandeur. If truth be told, I perished as a reult of that eviction. I live on now, if life it may be rightly called, thanks to the offices of the Lord Barak, Father of Darkness. Though there is pain in this, my existence, I cannot be other than grateful to him. When all is said and done, he is my father. They call me Canu Baraksson.

My natal day fell upon the 30th of Moroven in the year 649. My mother, Carolyneesa, was of humankind, a widow woman or so she claimed. She never once that I can recall spoke of my missing father other that to say that he was the most powerful man she had ever known, that he was gone now, and that it made her sad to think about him. At times I mused that thinking about anything made her sad; she was one of those seemingly not made for thought. She did, however, teach me my notes and how to play competently upon the lute. How was she to know, or I for that matter, that it would be both my fortune and my doom?

One day passed much like another in my youth. My mother and I would rise early each morning, eat a hasty breakfast, then leave the house; she to work in the fields and me to stand upon street corners, playing and singing for a few coppers. Sometimes the take was quite respectable (once a fat merchant, pleased with my tunes, magnanimously tossed a silver into my hat); other times the money came to but a miserly pittance. Still I was proud to be able to contribute to the household funds, and not act the layabout like some others of the young men my age in the village. At day's end we would return home to share the evening meal before retiring to our straw pallets to sleep.

It was in my 16th season that the world as I knew it changed forever. My mother was just removing our empty bowls from the table when there came a thunderous knocking at the door. We looked at one another, half fearfully as we were hardly expecting guests at this hour. Finally I arose and tiptoed across the room to the window. I drew back the curtain and peered out, trying to ascertain the identity of the person at the door, but the night was too dark and I could see nothing. Suddenly, with a splintering sound, the door burst inward, and a strange towering figure strode into the house. It was caparisoned all in black, cloaked, its face invisible beneath a hood.

My mother stared at the stranger and began to sob softly. The man, if man it was, ignored her, turning to me.

"In the name of Barak, boy," the stranger spoke, its voice a harsh metallic whisper. "Pack what belongings you have and come with me immediately. Your father wants you."

My mother gave a short shriek and crumpled in a heap upon the floor. I tried to argue that my father was dead, that my mother needed my help, but my pleas feel on deaf ears. Almost before I knew what was happening I was being escorted, not especially gently or respectfully, down the cobbled street, a small bundle in my hand containing all my worldly possessions. I never saw my mother again.

The night was black as any cavern and the path we traveled twisted and turned until I had lost all sense of where we might be. My guide or guard, whichever was its role, refused all attempts at conversation and would answer no questions. "Your father, when you see him, will make all plain," was all that it would say, and with that I was forced to be content.

At length we entered a certain street, a cul de sac. The dark figure,
still clutching tightly my left arm, approached a wall, barren of any opening so far as I could see. Raising its other arm, it slowly and purposefully sketched a set of arcane symbols that seemed to hang in the night air, emitting a faint greenish radiance. Then it spoke strange words, not in the Common tongue, which I could not understand. As if in answer, there came a deep rumbling sound, seeming to emanate from the very wall before us, and a dim outline appeared on the wall's surface. This proved in a few moments' time to be a doorway, and the figure stepped back a pace and motioned that I should enter. Fearfully, I did so.

Still to come: The meeting between Father and son. Baraksson is set upon the path of a Disciple. His attempts to soothe his Father's pain over the loss of Siberlee. Involvement in the great war between the Mothers and Fathers. The accident through which Baraksson falls from the heavens when the Fathers are ejected, and how Barak refuses to let him die, making him Undead. Sorting of loose ends.

Good Friday

Upon this day did I hear the truly wondrous news that I am to be Music Disciple to the Dark Lord Barak in the Land of Mernac. I am in equal measures gratified and humbled.

Tatianna: Character Story: Take One

Tatianna, whom most people know better as Tatianna the Fallen, could not have had a more blessed, if somewhat humble beginning. Born to D'Mitri Coraclescraper and Annalia Netweaver of the Yenpoh fisherfolk of Majikku Island, Tatianna possessed singular beauty, intelligence, singing talent, stubborn will, and insatiable curiosity. If anything could be said of young Tatianna, she praised the heavens with her vibrant love of life. All that changed when her curious nature led her to an exploration of the Dark Side, and a meddling specifically in the affairs of Barak, Father of Darkness.

Born under the sign of Perinne in Troval 16,(not sure of proper century), Tatianna was looked up to by all the village children, despite the fact that her various escapades frequently got them into trouble. While her friends often paid the penalty of harsh parental discipline for these
doings, Tatianna did but seldom. Her parents, and indeed all the fisherfolk of the Yenpoh village were too much besotted by Tatianna's beauty and charm, and could not bear to punish her, however richly she may have deserved it.

As she grew in beauty, so Tatianna grew in cleverness and curiosity. She found it gratifying to know things that others around her did not, and once she fastened upon a new mystery she could never let go until she had extracted every last kernel of knowledge about it. Some might have used such information to help others, or possibly to rule over them, but this was never a part of Tatianna's rationale. For her the mere knowing of anything was sufficient.

It was in mid-Tropsy of her seventeenth year that Tatianna first came to consider the puzzle that would lead to her undoing. She and her aging parents were attending a ceremony of worship, the local shaman leading the congregation in the age-old plea to the Mother, begging Their protection against the depredations of the Fathers. No other Yenpoh maiden would ever have dreamed of questioning the inherent goodness of the Mothers, much less the Dark Nature of the Fathers, but for Tatianna questioning was as natural as breathing. At this moment she determined to learn all she could of these deities, with particular regard to the Fathers of whom she realized she knew very little.

As might have been expected, the villagers were horrified at this new direction taken by Tatianna and her queries. Even dim-witted old hags, customarily shunned, would only mutter "Mothers good, Fathers bad" before shrieking at her to depart and leave them alone. Her well-meaning parents, frightened at the change in their beloved daughter, threatened to lock her in her room if she would not desist. All of this left Tatianna feeling at first very frustrated, and eventually terribly angry. However, her resolve was far from shaken, and she doggedly pursued her chosen quest.

Notes: Tatianna Sapling and Next Steps

Mercy on us! A character story? Well, que sera sera. The Scribe Julie was good enough to provide me a reserved sapling for the purpose; both she and the Mighty Father of Lust Quont have been very kind and helpful to me in furthering my writing ambitions.

So, notes. Following is the text of Julie's sapling, which I will have to develop:

Tatianna, whom most people know better as Tatianna the (insert title), could not have had a more blessed, if somewhat humble, beginning. Born to (insert father and mother’s names) of the Yenpoh fisherfolk of Majikku Island, Tatianna possessed singular beauty, intelligence, singing talent, stubborn will, and insatiable curiosity. If anything could be said of young Tatianna, she praised the heavens with her vibrant love of life. All that changed when…

Now that is a lovely beginning, but more detail surely is called for (if only to make the minimum word count, ha ha). Character traits are well established early on, and I can probably pull some of that directly from the finished early sections without having to rewrite too much.

One thing difficult will be, and that is to tell of events in Tatianna's life without giving away the details of just what happens to her in the completed legend. I had rather juggle swords, I think, but must make the effort.

At least for now I can explore the lands and other existing characters of her time and place, and start building her background. I used to think that writing was easy, but I believe I must amend that to something like writing being hard if you go about it the right way. Something like that. If I get frustrated I can always take a break and write a song. A whole song, not a "song-ling". Sometimes with songwriting doing it wrong is an absolute benefit. Peace.

Back home again and in one piece more or less

Apologies to all my imagined fans out there for not posting again sooner...I returned tonight from Rochester, NY, younger son in tow. He remains with us until Tuesday, at which point he spread his wings and soars off to the high desert country in Texas, there to overlook his aunt's new art gallery for the nonce. I shall return to the story again so soon as my Muse comes flitting about, nipping at my nethers, and making a general nuisance of herself. Peace.

The Fall of Tatianna, Part 2

In truth, it was the very cleverness of Tatianna that first brought her to grief, for ofttimes clever folk are overly inquisitive folk as well. Tatianna's curiosity was insatiable, her desire to know and understand all things immense. Once, when she was quite small and had accompanied her father on the fishing boat, she pondered why it was that the fish continued to swim into the nets, and if they realized it would be their fate to be eaten. Her father laughed and called her a silly wench when she asked him, but this answer did nothing to assuage her curiosity in the matter. Finally, she began tossing the fish that had already been caught, one by one, back into the water to see if they would swim into the nets again. This time her father gave her a much different answer: the backside of his hand and a longwinded lecture on the folly of throwing away one's livelihood. Tatianna, who had never known aught but kindly treatment from her parent, was so taken aback that she neglected to be curious for an entire half hour.

As she grew, Tatianna was involved in any number of escapades stemming from her cleverness and curious nature. Her parents, who loved her dearly, rarely took her to task over these matters, and the other folk of the little Yenpoh village were inclined to overlook her indiscretions because she was such a likable lass. She was unfailingly polite and pleasant to all she met, and even the other maidens, who might have envied her rare beauty, had to admit Tatianna was a perfectly lovely girl.

Season followed season on Majikku Island, and Tatianna ripened into young womanhood. Her beauty sparkled like the diamonds cast by the sun upon the waves, entrancing all who were fortunate enough to catch the merest glimpse of her. Indeed, she would have had a parade of admiring young men in her wake as she walked about the village, had not their fathers called them idle ne'er-do-wells and ordered them back to their work. Still, all this attention did not turn her head; in truth, she seemed all unaware of the stir her presence caused. Perhaps, unable to see herself through others' eyes, she did not even realize just how beautiful she was. Or perhaps it simply did not strike her as being of any importance. The important thing to Tatianna was satisying her constant gnawing curiosity.

It was in the growing season, not long past her seventeenth birthday, that Tatianna first turned her mind to contemplation of the gods. Here was a sumptuous repast for a hungry mind, knowledge unquestionably worth the knowing. Tatianna was not at all content with the rote parroting of "Mothers good, Fathers bad" that most of the villagers used to express their religious beliefs. She would learn more, she decided. She would understand.

Tatianna began methodically to educate herself as to the natures and dispositions of the Mothers and Fathers. When travelers or traders arrived at the Yenpoh village, she questioned them closely, filing away whatever details she might glean. She even made a pilgrimage to the Grey Elves who also inhabited the island, hoping the Nimti moon priestesses might divulge some secrets. Upon her return home her mother fondly called her a fool, but Tatianna, all unabashed, refused to give up her enterprise.

Fall of Tatianna -- Notes

Began the story of Tatianna tonight. The Muse whispered into my ear after a couple of Mernacians suggested that my image "The Oracle" bore an uncanny resemblance to the race of the Undead. I sincerely hope yon Muse is not playing me for a sucker, but I keep the flyswatter handy just in case.

Using the account of Scribe finister concerning Majikku Island for setting; details rather spotty, so will have to develop it as I proceed. Which is fine and dandy, as I only want enough details to ascertain that yes, this did happen somewhere sometime in Mernac (and not have someone later on pointing out gross discrepancies).

What was Tatianna's great sin? This remains to be sin, but it must be something major because (a.) the villagers subsequently ostracized her, and (b.) she became Undead as a result. Mustn't be petty, and (hopefully) won't be trite.

Enough for now. It's been a long day. To steal blatantly from Dr. Seuss, "Today is gone, today was fun, tomorrow is another one." Peace, all.

New Story: The Fall of Tatianna

There is no death for Tatianna. Conversely, there is no life. She forsook both in a misty past eons ago, after the Yenpoh fisherfolk discovered her sin and cast her out. Now her name is a whisper among those who dwell on Majikku Island; a bogey to affright naughty children, a curse to hurl at lazy housewives. Tatianna, you see, is one of the Undead.

It was not always thus for Tatianna. No, once the Mothers smiled graciously upon her, heaped gifts of intelligence, talent, and great physical beauty upon her head. Amongst all the maidens of the Yenpoh none, it was said, were fairer than Tatianna, and the menfolk, young and old alike, were kept dazzled by her charm and grace. She was well versed in all the womanly arts, and could likewwise haul sail or mend a net as skillfully as any man. The sound of her voice raised in song was known to coax the little birds down from the trees to peck for bread crumbs at her feet, and wild beasts would grow tame at her very approach. Yes, there was a time when Tatianna was much blessed.

Yet oft the pendulum swings in ways we would not have it go, and the tide intent upon washing the shore will not turn back for wishing it so. This is the tale of Tatianna, and how she lived, and how she loved, and how she lost, becoming this creature we now know, much despised. Listen:

Welcome, Honored Guest

I know not where you come from, I know not who you are
If you dwell just across the street or on some distant star
Nor what you hope to find here, but this I will confess
Whoe'er you are, whate'er you want, you're welcome nonetheless