Timothy Ferguson's Blog, page 82

In Which Marco Explains Why It is Always Spring in Carasonne

“Grandfather.  May I have a story before your nap?”

“Aren’t you going to disarm my traps and snares”

“No, I think if I keep doing that, you may burst a vein in your brain or something.  Just don’t exasperate me so!”

“Oh.  Have I ever told you why it’s always spring in Carasonne, near the Covenant of the Glass Oaks?”

“No.”

“Ah, well, sit comfortably and I’ll begin.  I was a young redcap out on my first mission, and I was sent to Carasonne in Langedoc, to deliver a letter.”

“You were sent to Langedoc?”

“Yes. I had misjudged my travel time, and so I need to camp in the woods on the final night of my journey. I thought they were safe, mortal woods, because they had none of the strange presence you sometimes feel.”  I think it was because I pitched my tent on the road.  I would have been fine, if only I had not decided to make water, and stepped off the edge.”

“What happened then?”

“A terrible host of faeries came riding along the treetops, and although I tried to run back for the road, I had been chased into an area with twisting grass, and so became terribly lost.”

“Twisting grass?”

“When you stand on it, it rotates without you noticing, so you charge off in the wrong direction.”

“So, how did you escape?”

“Well, the host carried flaming torches, and so I thought “Follow the sound of the river.  Run for water.” and that worked well for me until I actually found the small waterfall I could hear. For on the other side of the river was another host, armed with icicles which they used as great pikes.”

“Oh, and what happened next?”

“Well, I was trapped on a little sandbank, in the river, but not in the water, and so heralds from each side were sent, to determine who should have the privilege of killing me. Would I roast or freeze?  The heralds came onto my islands, as a neutral point.  And one was a damosel with eyes of flame and dressed in flickering red, and the other was a damosel with clothes made of cloudy ice, and with the blue lips of the drowned, and silver eyes.  And they argued with each other.”

“What happened next?”

“I asked to speak to the lady of flame, and promised to faithfully serve her court, but she refused me, so I offered to die, if she promised me something.”

“What was her promise?”

“That whenever anyone told a story of me, she must listen, and, in turn, tell the story of my conquest of the sky on a giant duck.”

“So, how did you survive?”

“Well, I then talked to the woman of ice, and offered to serve her, but she said she did not want service, she wanted blood. So I promised I to die for her, if only she would agree that when I was mentioned, she would listen to my story, and tell the story of the time I killed a king with a misplaced banana.”

“Oh. So then you just walked away?”

“Yes, I waited for them to be together, and craned my mouth close to the ear of the lady of ice and said “I once was digging some turnips with my friend and I said “I don’t believe in ghosts.” and the fellow who was with me…he just vanished!” She looked horrified, and began the story of my accidental murder of a king, with a misplaced banana.”

“And when she finished, the other started. And when the other finished, she started again!”

“Yes, and so the hordes of summer and winter are trapped, forever, at the stream, telling my two interlocking stories over and over again.  It has been spring in Carasonne for forty-nine years.”

“And the moral is?”

“It’s how a story moves people that matters.  Time for my nap.”

* * *

“Grandmother.”

“Yes, child?”

“Was the story true?  I couldn’t spot the false parts.”

“Close to true, certainly.”

“Which bit did he make up?”

“The part about the banana, I imagine.”

“So, he never killed a king accidentally with a banana?”

“It’s just not the sort of story he’d want others to tell.”

“He killed a king with a misplaced banana?”

“Yes, child.”

“That’s…”

“Ask him about it sometime.  Clearly he wants to tell it to you, or he would not have mentioned it. Now, eat your supper.”

Marco and The Story of the Shadow Psilos Sept

A rubber duck. (Wikipedia)

“Twelve, Grandpa”.

“Sorry?”

“Twelve.  I’ve noticed you give me better stories when we get certain things out of the way first.  So, Twelve, and that’s not a moral.”

“I’m not sure how to respond to that, child. It’s almost as if you are having a conversation in advance and are waiting for me to fill in the other half.”

“No need – but it means you need to give me a story now.  I have disarmed your snares and tricks, old man.”

“Yes.  Very clever.  Did I ever tell you the one about the giant duck?”

“No.  A giant duck?”

“Yes. I’d just returned the jewels to the submerged lair of the shadow psiloses, and on the way back I encountered a giant duck.”

“Although a giant duck is remarkable, I think you may have missed the core of the story, just there.”

“How do you mean?  I had quite an adventure with the giant duck, you see…”

“Let’s come back to the duck.  Submerged shadow psilos lair?  That sounds interesting.”

“It’s not part of this story though. This story is about how I flew via giant duck to a mystical land, and what I did there.  So, I swam under the water toward this duck…”

“Wait, wait…Was there a lot of violence at the shadow psilos lair?”

“That’s not the story I’m telling.  I grabbed the feet of this duck, as they swept up and down underwater, and I gripped on tight.”

“So, there was!”

“And as it left the water, I stayed clinging to its feet, as it flapped south, toward Africa and the Ring of Fire.”

“Ring of Fire?  No, no, forget I mentioned it. So, lair…violence…knives and shadows.”

“So, the duck became tired, from carrying me, and stopped to rest in a desert oasis.  My arms, which had suffered terrible fatigue, also needed rest, so I let go, and splashed into the waters.  This scared the bird, and I was unable to recapture it. It kept swimming out of my reach.”

“So, who hurt whom?  Your friend’s not in this new story, is she?  Did she die?”

“That’s not the story I’m telling.  So, then a creature, half woman and half crocodile came near to me, and in her dread, coughing voice she demanded to know who I was. She had teeth like slivers of glass, and a spear tipped with the barbs of stinging rays.  Her matted hair was like weeds, and in the depths of the pool I could see the bones of men who had come before me, to her lake.”

“So, she did die. You’d bought back the things you’d stolen, but because she’d sided with you, the other psiloses killed her?”

“So, this crocodile woman…Rosa, please pay attention…she demanded to know who I was.”

“Was she a crocodile from the waist down and a woman from the waist up?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, ha.  So, you said?”

“I said “I am Marco, who has conquered the sky on his giant duck!”"

“And what did she do?”

“She said ‘Giant duck?’ and I said ‘Let me tell you about it…’”

“Oh. Is this a recursive story?”

“For you, no. For six months I shared stories with her strange people, and they fed my duck so it was contented and did not fly away. Then when the summer came, and my duck was restive, I mounted it on a special saddle they had made for me from the skins of one of their enemies, and I rode back to Venice.”

“And the moral is?”

“You always tell me what the moral is.”

“But I haven’t worked it out.”

“The moral is, always have a story to tell.”

“So, about the shadow psilos lair…”

“Some other time, child. I need a nap.”

* * *

“Grandmother.”

“No, child.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever begun a conversation with me that way before.”

“I’m sure I have.”

“What did he…”

“No.  It’s terrible.  You don’t need to know.”

“But, a sunken lair. What’s that like?”

“It’s as a it sounds: an airproof dome raised by the Tremere, as somewhere to hide from the Diedne if worst came to worst. The psiloses can travel there because they can simply walk through the dome.”

“And they killed his friend?”

“Yes. ”

“And you won’t give me any details?”

“No, child. Eat your supper.”

In Which Marco Steals A Necklace

“With you hands.”

“What?”

“It’s what you were going to say.  You were going to say ‘I stole the necklace with my hands’ and then you were going to mention she was in the bath. I’d yell at you about my age, and you’d trick me into mentioning a moral.  Story over. Nap.”

“No, of course not.”

“Really?”

“Of course not.”

 ”You are going to give me a complete story?”

“I always do.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes.  You see, when stealing something, the first thing to do is work out where it is, and if it moves at various times.  This necklace was worn by a Sicilian duchess. It was marvellous. So, I knew she would wear it to a particular ball, which was the highlight of the social season. She would have it laid out, in her dressing room, as she bathed.”

“And a bath takes half an hour.”

“Yes.  So, the difficulty was getting into her dressing room, during that time.”

“Sneak in?  Your friend who could take you through the wall?”

“Ah, the dressing room was on an upper level. The shadow psilos can fly, but they can’t carry a person.”

“So, what was on the lower level?”

“The kitchens.”

“So, you stepped through the wall into the kitchen.  Servants. Equipment.”

“Cooks, servers, her staff as they ate.”

“Oh!  Water!”

“Yes.  I decided to carry the water to her bathroom.”

“So, you…were dressed as a redcap?”

“No. I was dressed as a cook.”

“A cook?  Why would a cook carry water.”

“A female cook.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Sicilians have Muslim cooks.”

“I’m still not with you.”

“She wore a veil.”

“Which you stole from one of the other servants?”

“No, my psilos friend did.  It’s remarkably easy to steal clothes when you can step into a closet from behind.”

“No – the story doesn’t work. What happened to the person who would normally carry the water?”

“Aconite.”

“Grandfather!”

“Not enough to kill.  Just enough to cause a coma. A lot of redcaps carry a poisoned dart or needle in a small ceramic vial. Mine’s in the handle of my knife.  A single prick and the person sleeps for hours.”

“So, you poison a woman, hide her in a…”

“Barrel.”

“…barrel, and then use stolen clothes to carry water into the bathroom of the duchess. She’s not yet there?”

“She’s not yet there.”

“So, she’s in her dressing room?”

“No, she’s eating in a sitting room.”

“So, you go from her bathroom to the dressing room and pick up the necklace.  And then you walk out?”

“No, the necklace is guarded.”

“So, there’s a guard?”

“Yes, a young man with a sword and mail.”

“So you…stab him with an aconite dart?”

“No.”

“Sneak past him?”

“No.”

“Tell him that he’s needed elsewhere?”

“No!”

“Surely three guesses is enough?”

“Certainly. I flirt with him and convince him to carry my heavy bucket back downstairs.”

“You flirt with him?”

“Yes.”

“But..well, alright you face is covered, but..”

“Fruit.  Strategically placed fruit.”

“I find that very difficult to believe.”

“Not at all, the girl I stole the clothes from had a tempestuous affair with him later.”

“So, as he turns away with the heavy bucket…”

“I put the necklace in the bucket and he carries it out for me.”

“And then?”

“I kiss him goodbye, through my veil, and flatter him some more, and let him bruise some fruit.”

“Grandfather!”

“Yes?”

“Oh, I can’t be bothered.  What next?”

“My ally and I fled at speed by horse.  We had peaches for lunch.”

“What are you trying to pull, old man?”

“How do you mean?”

“That had a beginning, a middle and an end.”

“Yes.”

“Technically, that was a story.”

“All of my stories are stories.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Of course its true.  They all have a moral, too.”

“All right. This time, it’s all right.  Is it “Be careful of beautiful women?”".

“No.”

“It is “Always have friends and contingency plans?”

“No.”

“Is it “Always pack lunch.”?

“Exactly right!”

“Oh, grandfather, you were doing so well…”

“That’s your story.  Now, time for my nap!”

* * *

“Grandmother?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Grandfather told me about stealing a necklace…”

“I cannot say I approve. Not the sort of story to tell to a young lady.”

“Really? It seemed tamer than many. What part did he lie about?”

“How did he get past the guard?”

“Flirtation and later kissing?”

“Ah.”

“What really happened?”

“I”ll tell you when you’re older.”

“Is it a violent thing?”

“Oh, yes my dear, a very violent thing.”

“That’s a pity. That was the funny part.”

“Well…that’s a pity, I agree.  Now eat your supper.”

“Does he often do that?”

“What, my dear?”

“Use innuendo to distract me from the violent parts?”

“Yes.  Very much so. Now, eat your supper.”

No Marco Post Today

Sorry all: today’s post went live yesterday, which is why you had two stories. 8)  See you tomorrow!

The Story in Which Marco Is Saved From Death By a Lovely And Charitable Lady, For the Eighty-Second Time

“Grandpa!  The Sun is low! Stories are nigh!”

“Oh? Well, what kind would you like?”

“Regardless of what I say, you are going to tell me the one you want and pretend it counts. Then you’ll try to trick me into ending the story early.  You may also mention women in an inappropriate way, because you do not understand I am too young to enjoy your careful entendres.”

“All of the these things are true! That…”

“That is in no way a moral. You will not finish my story before it even starts! It, thus far, has not a single character, setting element…”

“It has a character. You said there was a…”

“Scandalous lady?  Good grief. “There was a scandalous lady. She did a scandalous thing. I smirked about it afterwards.” is not a story!

“Yes, so let’s just take that as read, shall we? I had sold some treasure I had found in a grave. This is not the sort of thing a fellow should admit to, but it ended up so well that one I hardly complain. So, I was selling these items and the family descended from the inhabitant of the tomb tried to kill me. They were a powerful psilos family from Venice. In spiritual form they were elongated shadows, with glowing red eyes and cruel knives. They could take spiritual shape to walk through walls, and their knives could cause Warping and the inability to cast Creo magic. Anyhow, they chased my across the sea to Zara, and I could only keep them at bay by sleeping in churches.”

“Is this Mother’s family?”

“Oh, no, dear – your mother’s an archer psilos.”

“Oh, of course.  What can we do?”

“You can make an arrow land precisely where you want, always. At least, you will be able to, once we go home, and you begin your training.”

“Aren’t we at home?  It certainly feels like home.”

“Oh, no. You are home. We are just waiting here.  My shoes need to find me, among other things.”

“So, there other psiloses…they were chasing you, and you didn’t have your shoes.”

“True! Had I but had my shoes, I would have been able to escape them.”

“You need a second pair of shoes, Grandfather.”

“A second pair…I’d not thought of that.  Then my shoes would not need to find me.  Id just have a spare pair.  We could grow a pair for your grandmother, too.”

“Grow a pair?”

“Oh, yes, they grow on a special type of tree.”

“That’s simply ridiculous.”

“No it isn’t. My boots grew on the same sort of tree.”

“I find that very difficult to believe.”

“Well, it has nothing to do with our story.  So, there was this woman who had walked through my wall while I was bathing…”

“Grandfather!  Twelve!  Do I need to carry a sign?”

“Oh, yes. Twelve. Anyhow, she decided she wanted to be my friend, and so she hid me from the others until I could get the stolen  items back. Her people could not find me if I slept in a ring of outward facing mirrors. She even helped me steal the items from the people I’d sold them to. They can push other people through walls, you know.  An odd sensation, rather like laying your skin on cold and slightly gritty marble.  This took, oh, a good year, I believe.  We toured Italy, sleeping in my little ring of mirrors, and robbing powerful noblemen of their magic items.

“That really is far more like a story than your previous stories.  It’s awfully condensed though. Each item could be the kernel of a story, and then you’d get a rewsolution for each. That’d be the way to tell it.”

“You know, you’re right. Tomorrow I will tell you the tale of how I took back the necklace, from about the neck of a bathing duchess.”

“You did it again!”

“What?”

“Tricked me into finishing your story early!”

“Me? No! That was a complete story!”

“What was the moral?”

“What do you think it was?”

“That my grandfather is sneaky and cruel?”

“No, never think that, little one. There’s a better one.”

“That every story is full of little stories?”

“Exactly!”

“Alright, I let this pass, Grandfather, but I want a proper story tomorrow.  How you took the necklace from the bathing duchess! No excuses!”

“Now, now. I’d never cheat you out of a story. Go have supper while I have my nap.”

* * *

“Grandmother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Where were you?  When he was travelling around Italy with this strange woman?”

“Oh, I was around. He and I had met on the road. I travelled a lot, back then.”

“The werewolf business?”

“Oh, no, I was only a werewolf briefly. I did not make a career of it.”

“So, you’re a psilos, like mother?”

“No, dear. Your mother’s family are all psiloses, but our side have always been redcaps.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I do hope your father’s mission is going well. It is routine, but family tend to worry for family.”

“Grandmother. Whose cottage is this?”

“Why…yours, dear.”

“It’s not your home, though, is it? Grandfather said you don’t live here.”

“We are watching you while your parents are away, dear. You know this already, I’m sure. Surely they explained it to you?”

“Yes. It just seems like you’ve always been here.”

“Well, that’s a lovely thing to say, but, no, my dear.”

“What was the lie?”

“How do you mean?”

“In his story?  Was it the ridiculous bit about the boots growing on a tree?”

“No, his boots really did grow on a tree. The redcaps won the original from a faerie court, centuries ago, and they have propigated it to many covenants.”

“Then, what?”

“He didn’t have a dalliance with that woman. They were allies, and she shielded him from the wrath of her family, but they were never…closer than that.”

“Then why add it? Why not just tell me the truth about everything?”

“I think perhaps he didn’t want to explain her real motives. Her family had splintered into two factions. As they found the items of her ancestress, she gained greater and greater sway with the other members of her tradition. It ended badly: your grandfather may have killed the leader of the other side.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Or, atl east, trapped him forever in a mirrored bottle.”

“That’s worse!”

“Well, you see, you have a choice. You can accept his lies, or you can accept my truths. His stories are clearly the more pleasant…”

“Your truths. I love his stories, but they aren’t true.”

“Oh, they are more true than you’d think. Anyway, eat your supper, dear.”

 

How Marco Destroyed The Fleet of the Fourth Crusade

Conquest Of Constantinople By The Crusaders In 1204 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Grandfather…”

“Yes, Rosa?”

“It’s tomorrow. It’s time for one of your stories.”

“Oh, have I told you about the time I destroyed a crusader fleet by accident?”

“No…I don’t think so.”

“Well, I was delivering a message to a covenant in the Alps, you know. They kept a sort of shared sanctum, for their covenant meetings, and to keep their library in. I was told to wait there. Now, that’s a bit unusual of course, but redcaps often get asked into sancta. Their anti-scrying spells are often better there. Anyway, I was told to wait, and they gave me a quite nice lunch of, oh, bread and cheese and unicorn, I think it was, with olives…”

“Grandfather!”

“Oh, yes, sorry. So, I knew I’d have to wait for an hour or two, and they’d told me I could nap there or read some of the mundane books and one of them would make sure to wake me before the magi arrived. When they were tidying up, you know. So, I thought about sleeping, but I was a new redcap, out on my first solo delivery, and I smelled rather like a mule, so when I saw there was an ornate basin of water by the fire, I thought. “A bath would suit me just fine.”

“A basin?”

“Well, more like a sort of horse trough, really, but made of gold and covered in weird symbols of ancient Egypt. I didn’t know that at the time of course. Did I tell you about the time I discovered Cleopatra’s…”

“Grandfather!”

“What? Oh, yes, sorry…my mind tends to wander. So, I stripped off and was lying in this bath, and I noticed they had these little boats at one side. So, as you would, I started making them fight each other. “Prepare to repel borders!” that sort of thing. I re-enacted the battle off Alexandria, you know. So, I was having a good old splash around, when, unannounced, in walks a young maga, and she almost incinerates me. You see, I was sitting in the Scrying Pool of Nectanebo, First Pharoah of that Name, and playing with the ships he used to curse the fleets of his enemies. The maga cast a quick divination, while I was still in the bath mind you, and discovered I’d destroyed part of the fleet returning from the Fourth Crusade. Most embarassing. There’s a lesson to be learned here young lady. What do you thin it is?”

“Don’t go swimming in other people’s magic items?”

“Oh, yes. That exactly.”

“Now, you’d usually make some sort of lewd comment, and I’d remind you I’m too young for your ribaldry.”

“Ah, yes I was going to be in terrible trouble, but the young lady was impressed by what I was using as a scale model for the Pharos of…”

“Grandfather!”

“Well, and that’s your story. I’ll have my nap now.”

…

“Grandmother, he was telling me about his first trip as a young redcap.”

“Which one, my dear?”

“The one with the Egyptian bath?”

“Oh yes, that’s a good one, but not suitable for someone your age.”

“Did he really destroy a fleet?”

“But of course.”

“So that story was true?”

“Well, he’s a bit of a teller of tales. All of his stories contain a little…exageration,”

“So, the young maga?”

“Oh, no. They had a rather close friendship for many years. She’s dead now, mind you.”

“So, what?”

“The unicorn. He’s never eaten a unicorn in his life.”

How Marco Obtained The Finest Shoes A Redcap Ever Wore

A German woodcut of werewolf from 1722. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Grandfather. It’s almost time for supper.”

“Ah, that must be why I’m so tired. I need a nap.“

“Story first, naps later old man!”

“Yes little miss! Now, what sort of story do you want? A spooky one like yesterday?”

“I’d like a spooky one, but unlike yesterday, in the sense that I’d like it really to be spooky.”

“Ah, righto. Do you remember how I got my shoes?”

“You wear boots.”

“Yes, here I am wearing boots. That is true. Sometimes, however, on official business I wear shoes. I have lost them for now, but will find them again. You see – that is the nature of my shoes. I always find them again.”

“That’s got to be the silliest magical item ever invented.”

“No, it’s great magic! It predicts my actions, you see. You have no idea how much House Bonisagus would pay for my shoes!”

“Why?”

“They are the researchers of the Order. They would love predictive magic.”

“So, you lost you shoes? That’s my spooky story?”

“Why couldn’t I have lost my shoes in a spooky way?”

“Now you are going to ask me to suggest a spooky way you could have lost your shoes!”

“No I wasn’t! I lost them during a werewolf attack.”

“A werewolf ate your shoes.”

“No, she stole my shoes.”

“Why does a werewolf need shoes?”

“Well she was fleeing a pious mob and the moon had gone down…”

“Oh, good grief.  Is it possible to get through just one of your stories without me reminding you that I’m a child?”

“How do you mean?”

“She needed your shoes because she was naked. She’d changed back and she was running naked through the snow.”

“Yes! Are you sure I haven’t told you this before?  The snow part, I mean.  I had not mentioned that yet.”

“This is still not a spooky story!  I demand spookiness!”

“Well, miss clever clogs, this isn’t the story I offered to tell. I was going to tell you how I got my shoes, not how I lost them. How I lost them doesn’t matter. They always come back.  Or, at least, they are always waiting for me where I go.  That’s their second-best magic!”

“What’s their best magic?”

“They let me escape anything!  Walls. Regiones. You name it.  I can escape if I only have my shoes. Your grandmother too.”

“She has magic shoes?”

“No, we take one each and hop along.  That’s not the story, though.”

“How did you get your shoes?”

“I’m glad you asked.  It’s a good story. It even has a moral.”

“Is the moral that it’s really important to have comfortable shoes?”

“Exactly!  Well, if you know the moral already there’s no need to tell you the story, as you have its essence!  Time for supper!”

“No!  You haven’t given me a story!  You keep cheating me out of stories!”

“I told you about a naked werewolf.”

“That wasn’t a story. That was just a setup.  How did that end?”

“Oh, I married her.”

“What?  My grandmother’s not a werewolf!”

“Ask her at supper. Time for my nap!”

…

“Grandmother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Are you a werewolf?”

“Not anymore.  I was. I became better. I escaped my curse.”

“How? Wait a minute. I know: you went running from it in grandfather’s shoes which can escape anything.”

“Exactly.”

“Grandmother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Have your eyes always been hazel?”

“No, it was an effect of the curse which stayed with me.”

“No…I mean…were they hazel yesterday?”

“Of course, dear.”

“Are you very sure?”

“Of course. They have been hazel as long as you can remember. Now, eat your supper.”

How Marco Was Almost Executed by The Tremere (The Third Time)

Mourning Lady With A Rose / Trauernde Frau mit Rose (01) (Photo credit: Georg Schwalbach (GS1311))

“Grandfather, before your nap: you promised me a story!”

“Certainly. What sort?”

“Spooky, please.”

“Very well. So, when I was a young redcap I was stationed in Istria, which is near Italy, but in the Transylvanian Tribunal. It’s a strange and history haunted place. There was a storm, and I’d had to leave the barn I was staying in because I’d stolen some wine from the farmer who owned it. Although, to be fair, his wife had drunk half of it and so I was kind of undressed…”

“Grandfather! I’m only twelve, remember?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! You were there when I was born!”

“Oh, yes. Lovely day. Anyway, there was a terrible storm, and so I was walking through the blinding rain and I’d lost my shoes again.  I found this sheltered nook where the road had caved in. It had been built over some sort of grotto tomb, and so I thought “Well, I mean, ghosts are people, and people are generally good, so I can shelter in here, and talk my way out of it if it is haunted.” So I tied a rope off to a nearby tree and lowered myself down the hole.

The tomb had a couple of magical traps, but they were marked with Hermetic symbols, so I was able to avoid triggering them. Older sorts of stuff, left over from the War, was often marked this way, after the Diedne were killed. They don’t teach younger people about it anymore. Not a lot of the old traps left,so they don’t need to. I’d read a book about them, though, in your great-grandmother’s study. So, I walked through to the tomb. It was one of those marble ones, you know. Good flat top, and warmed by a perpetual flame, so it seemed like just the spot for a nap, while the storm blew itself out.

I was awakened by a touch on my shoulder. It was a Tremere maga. She was prodding me with a stick, and her left hand had been transformed into a mass of five serpents, each spitting and snapping. She asked why I was prying into the affairs of her House. I promised I wasn’t, and let her read my mind…

“You’re about to make a lurid insinuation, aren’t you?”

“…um, no, not now. There’s a sort of timing to lurid insinuations which you seem to ruin with interruptions.”

“I know. So, why did she nearly kill you?”

“Well, the tomb was a leftover secret from the war. It belonged to — a psilos!”

“Ooh!  What’s a psilas?”

“You know what a psilos is. Your mother’s a psilos.”

“I know. So, why the big buildup?  She was a psilos.  La de dah. Aren’t we all?”

 

 

“Well, your mother’s family are, but you see, we don’t tell people.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with being a psilos?”

“It makes magi nervous. They don’t like the idea that mortals were ever trained to hunt and kill them.”

“But…we haven’t done it recently.”

“No, and they trained us to begin with. All of the psilos families, if you trace them back far enough, started with the Tremere.”

“The psilos you found, she served the Tremere?”

“Yes.”

“So, she didn’t kill you.”

“Who?”

“The Tremere maga. The one with the snakes for fingers?”

“Oh, no. She was distracted…”

“Grandfather!”

“..and convinced that I was no threat. And so I was allowed to go.”

“What, is that the story?”

“Yes, it even has a moral. Can you guess what it is?”

“Don’t tell magi you are a psilos?”

“Exactly right!”

“That wasn’t spooky at all! You said it would be spooky!”

“I crawled into a grave and fell asleep inside. That’s spooky!  I was attacked by someone with snaky fingers – like these!”

“Stop that!  I hate being tickled!”

“You loved it as a baby.”

” I’m not a baby! I’m twelve!”

“Say it was spooky!”

“Alright! Alright! It’s spooky!  … I was expecting a ghost, though.”

“There was a ghost.”

“Oh, pswah! You are going to say the maga was a ghost!”

“Have I told you this before?

“Oh, you are so infuriating at times! That’s so transparently a lie!”

“Hehe. Ask your grandmother…I’m having my nap.”

…

“Grandmother, did grandpa ever tell you about a ghostly woman with a set of snakes for a hand?”

“Yes, she showed up several times in his life.”

“And sleeping in a grave?”

“Also more than once. Did he trick you into finishing your story for him?”

“I think so. So it was all true?”

“No, there was no flat lid on the grave. He slept curled up with a marble statue of the woman with the serpents for her hand.”

“Oh, that’s far better, you know. Why didn’t he mention it?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps he didn’t want to mention the part where they tore off his arm.”

“His arm? He has two arms!”

“A magus restored the other for him, in exchange for some of the treasures he stole from that tomb.”

“This is nothing like the story he told me!”

“Well, you do keep insisting that you are twelve.”

“I am twelve!”

“Well, you can’t blame him for shielding you from the horrific things. Settle now. Have your supper.”

The First Story of Marco, Who Has Often Been Accused of Telling Lies, To His Grand-Daughter

 ”All right, one story, but none of your lies and obfuscations!”

“Lies? Me? No! You can check with her.”

“Leave me out of this, old man. I’m going to make some supper while you tell her her story.”

“Really? Such cowardice. All right. How do we begin?”

“I believe “Once upon a time” to be traditional in these cases.”

“Oh, yes. Once upon a time I was strolling with my wife through a faerie woodland.”

“This is starting to get boring.”

“No, it picks up right away. You see we were attacked by a faerie queen and escaped.”

“Didn’t you just give away the ending?”

“No, you know we escaped. If we didn’t escape, how could I be telling you this story?”

“Ah. Clever. So, you were attacked by a faerie queen. What was she like?”

“Oh, she was terrible and cruel.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps she was nice and you were just annoying her.”

“Oh, yes, terrible and cruel. After all, she wanted to kill us, didn’t she?”

“Well, yes, fair enough, so she was terrible and cruel.”

“…and she wanted to kill us.”

“And she wanted to kill you.”

“Us.”

“Us?”

“Us.”

“I was there?”

“Yes. You were very small at the time.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Well, you are only twelve. Your perspective on these things is limited.”

“I’m almost certain I’m not twelve.”

“You are. I was, I’d remind you, there when you were born. So was your grandmother.”

“What?”

“You can ask her later, at supper.”

“I will. That being said, your story has yet to begin.”

“No, our story began a while ago. Attacked by a faerie queen, remember.”

“Oh, yes. Terrible and cruel.”

“…wanted to kill us.”

“…and wanted to kill us.”

“Yes, and she made me tell recursive stories, to avoid being killed.”

“Oh, that’s where you tell one story, and at the apparent end, one of the characters says “That reminds me of the tale of so and so” and you carry on for years and years?”

“Yes, that exactly. I told her stories for three years.”

“That seems excessive.”

“It’s why we named your mother Schazerade.”

“That seems ridiculously unlikely, but back to this faerie queen.”

“We escaped.”

“That’s not a story! That’s just a plot! You can’t just say “We were attacked by a faerie queen and escaped. There’s your story!”"

“I could., There are some really brief stories. “She woke in the dark” or “Digging turnips” for example.

“What’s “She woke in the dark?”

“She woke in the dark. She was very afraid. She reached for the matches. They were handed to her.”

“What are matches?”

“Forget I mentioned them. Candle lighters. It’s a Criamon adulteration thing.”

“None of the words in the end of that last sentence actually meant anything at all. That’s not a story, if there are no matches.”

“No! It’s creepy and its about being vulnerable at night.”

“OK, I can sort of see it. In a distant sort of way. What’s Digging Turnips?”

“It’s a story.”

“That’s yet to be seen, on recent form.”

“Two men were digging in a turnip field. One turns to the other and says “I don’t believe in ghosts. The other, he just — vanished!”"

“OK, even if I accept that’s a story, and I’m not sure I do, this other thing…it’s not a story.”

“It might be. “We were walking in a wood. A faerie queen attacked us. We escaped.” That’s a story. It might not be very good…

“It certainly isn’t.”

“..but it’s a story. It has characters, and an opponent, and a resolution.”

“..but its not very clever. The resolution.”

“Oh, I think its clever enough. And I’ve distracted you for long enough for your grandmother to make us dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, Rosa. It’s time for dinner. You can have another story tomorrow.”

“Will it be a better one than this one?”

“Oh, certainly. But this was a proper story. It even had a moral.”

“Don’t get killed by faerie queens?”

“Exactly!”

“Oh, that’s just ridiculous.”

“Dinner!”

…

“Grandmother?”

“Yes, Rosa?

“Were you really attacked by a faerie queen, when I was little?”

“Well, there is some element of exaggeration in all of his stories. We were not attacked by the Queen herself. We were imprisoned by her minions, and he was forced to tell her stories. Other than that, it’s all true.”

“And my mother’s really named Schazerade.”

“Not in the baptismal sense. Now, then, get started on your dinner.”

The Stories of Marco the Liar

Marco the unreliable redcap was first introduced to Ars Magica in Covenants, where his role was to let us explore ideas without making them canonical in the setting. While setting up for National Gaming  Design Month this year, I was asked to provide some more game fiction, so I’ve bought Marco back, with a series of short stories about his adventures, told to his grand-daughter.

Due to illness, I started this project late, so I’ll let it run past the end of the month. NaGaDeMon entries are meant to be game supplements, so I may stat up some of the things discussed.  Or not, in many cases.  Please feel free to comment and discuss as we go along.