Spindle

Ursula Le Guin's prose are the best fantasy has to offer in my opinion Added to the list!

Hello. Perhaps it's not my place to be composing threads on topics that I may not grasp in their entirety - seeing as I have only been scampering around this community for such a short time. However, during my stint here it appears that with every refresh, or after albeit the now very rare instances I take a little break, there's a new post about the many failings and “problems” with Lotc. I don’t think I will ever shake this newfound association that the string of words “the problems with…” evokes. With that being said, this is me shining a light into this decrepit demi-monde in hopes of maybe airing out some cobwebs and dust. Before I start rambling, this thread was inspired by @un-w So I like books. I figured you people do too. A book club thread seemed like a fun little way to break up the avalanche that is this: Nothing against you hun @Slorbin So don’t be shy! Go ahead and share whatever you’re reading or whatever you want to read. Format (go ahead and copy this) Favourite book or author? The Sound of Waves by Yukio Mishima The first book you read, or the first one you remember reading? The first book I can confidently say I can remember reading was Rowan of Rin. A pretty eccentric one but it was a big thing over here in Australia, especially in the 90s. My parents read me a plethora of books when my brain was like a smooth marble. As a result, my childhood amnesia prohibits me from remembering anything about them. The hobbit was a pretty big one, which I later revisited like a lot of the other ones I had read to me. Another was a terrible translation of the odyssey. Honestly no clue why my dad thought it was a good idea to read this to a toddler. Books you want to read but haven’t got around to? Fables by Jean de La Fontaine List some others you have read and talk about them: So I’m either going to give something a star rating if I have nothing to say about them, or I’ll write a little line about why you should read it. These are my most memorable ones. The Great Gatsby - 4 stars The Odyssey - 5 stars (You need to make sure the translation is good. Really hit or miss) Heart of Darkness - 4.5 stars (Conrad is astounding. Prose are unreal. And English was not even his first language) Pride and Prejudice - 4 stars The Divine Comedy - 5 stars (It’s a prerequisite. You just gotta) Arabian Nights - ??? (Cutest bedtime stories ever) The Dream of a Ridiculous Man - 4 stars Rashōmon - 4 stars Zadig & Candide - 5 stars (Two books but you have to read both) The Metamorphosis - 4 stars The Count of Monte Cristo - 3.5 stars I Am a Cat - 4 stars (Mimsy cat inspiration. Seriously good and a prerequisite for Japanese lit) No Longer Human - 3 stars (Japanese Dostoyevsky) The Old Man and the Sea - 4 stars (Hemmingway was just a straight version of Mishima) Faust - 4 stars (Might not count but all you spooky players should be reading/watching this) A Wizard of Earthsea - 4 stars (The peak before the cesspool of modern fantasy. How’s it feel all you Patrick Rothfuss fans. The Princess and the Goblin - 3.5 stars Notes From Underground - 4 stars Dead Souls - 4 stars (Grandad of Russian lit) Keep being cool, Spindle/Elaine

Edited 14/07/22 (Developed upon Vaseek lore) - Credit to @Tentoa for the concept bootleg.

The Mimsy Cat Purpose The intention behind this piece is to expand on the trope of the witch’s cat. Lo! What self-respecting witch would employ such a mundane thing as a house cat? Therefore, this rendition of the idea, the Mimsy Cat, is my interpretation. I first want to acknowledge my many references, chief amongst which is Robert Jordan’s “The Wheel of Time” from which the original idea of a mystically enticed cat arose. Now, I feel it necessary to discuss the inspiration behind this lore entry. Foreword: On Bestial Myths, Cats, & Culture In the fifth century B.C.E., Greek historian Herodotus noted in the Histories[1] of the aiélouros cat, or the “waving ones.” He was of course referring to the oscillating quality of their tails, yet this seemingly mundane observation accurately characterised the mystical notion of the cat in mythos and culture[2]: Their whimsy impermanence. Darnton (1984), attributes this impermanence[3] to “an indefinable je ne sais quoi about cats, a mysterious something that has fascinated mankind.” In broader culture, there appear similar rich stories and myths pertaining to this idea of the aiélouros cat. Ancient Egypt and the Bastet. Europe and the black cat, Cat-sìth, and the witch’s cat. Islam and Muezza. The cats of such stories often share a common undomestication. A ferality not subdued or in mimicary of human behaviour or action[4]. In Rudyard Kipling’s The Cat Who Walked By Itself, the reader is presented with the “independent dependence,”[4] and the uncaring character of the domestic cat. Similarly, Natsume Souseki’s I am a cat, reminds us of their pussyfooted guile - “If whiskers establish sauciness, every cat is impudent.”[5] Under the looming cast of the Christian zeitgeist, the cat took on an increasing evil element. An association with the spirit of the devil. The cat soon became a companion of the witch and bonfire and an aura of hilarious witch-hunting was the spirit of the time. Mystical consensus predicated that witches could turn into cats and cats could become witches.[6] Therefore the torture of cats sprouted as a seemingly amusing pastime in early modern Europe. Literature of the time reinforces this notion - Hogarth's depiction of the stages of cruelty and Cervantes’s Don Quixote illustrate the practice of hanging cats and burnings alongside witches. Lawrence (2003), posits this to be a difference in cultural perception.[6] The symbolism attached to an animal naturally differs from one cultural context to another. Despite this fact, some form of lingering ***** tone remains: The distrust of cats and their whimsy impermanence. Creature Lore: The Mimsy Cat Padfoot The Mimsy, Padfoot The Mimsy; Coat like thistle and tail all flimsy. Padfoot The Mimsy Cat On Almarian Bestiary C. E. Dantes 1766 Introduction The Mimsy Cat is an animal of a puzzling quality. Were it possible to ignore the mystical nature of the creature, its character would seem indistinguishable to that of any other black-furred cat. Yet it is in that mystical nature that its puzzling quality has been observed and discerned from the domestic cat. In legend, if one was to believe in such things, an agreement between a witch and the daemon Vaasek created what was to become of the first Mimsy Cat. In her dark dabblings, this particular witch of an untold origin brought upon herself the anger of a neighbouring village. As it is so common, the occupants of the neighbouring village caught wind of her mischief and forced her before the township to burn. At her time of definite peril, Vaasek offered aid in the form of turning the witch into a black cat, whereat she hastily escaped and was forever indebted to the daemon. It is believed thereafter, that the witch and subsequent Mimsy Cats aid Vaasek as spies, lurking in all the dingy and decrepit shadows, imparting what little information they can gather to the lord of anxiety and fallacy.[9] Whether or not this legend is true, it has been observed among populations of Mimsy Cat’s that a certain fondness for the magical presides. Highest in order of this fondness is that of the Voidal and dark practitioner. Mimsy Cat’s are drawn to these characters like moths to a flame through use of their Sìth Sense, with the largest populations of Mimsy Cats having been observed about places of high Voidal and dark communion. In the case of deific magics, other than those of Vaasek’s relation who are characterised by the same magnetism of Mimsy Cats, the reaction of Mimsy Cats has been noted to have a certain despondent distrust. Among the populations of mundane people, Mimsy Cats behave like that of any other cat, if not for perhaps a slight significance in their rarity. Appearance While it was stated of their cat-like appearance, Mimsy Cats do not differ in variety. Black hair and yellow eyes are their only form. Further, populations of Mimsy Cats suffer from a prevailing female monomorphism[10] and as a result, the rate in which they breed is greatly diminished. Mimsy Culture Prevalent beliefs surrounding Mimsy Cats differ between cultural groups and peoples. In those northern dwellings of men, namely the Kingdoms of Norland and Hanseti-Ruska, the tales of the unlucky cat or the Cait Sidhe, pass through generations of children epidemically. It is said in these frigid lands that the Cait Sidhe claims the souls of the dead, possessed by the festering spirit of Vaasek and damning all those unlucky souls to an eternity of pain and suffering. Therefore the practice of what is called 'Feill Fadalach' or ‘The Late Wake," is performed among all those lingering believers of the unlucky cat, whereat bundles of indigenous herbs are burned around the body to ward off the Cait Sidhe from claiming the deceased’s soul. Among the land’s elves, whom some note a more civilised system of beliefs in regards to the Mimsy Cat, it is customary to leave out a saucer of milk for any stray black cats Mimsy or otherwise.[11] Within the central kingdoms of men and dwarves, the magical intimacy of the Mimsy Cat is understood to varying degrees. If it was observed in the kingdoms of a heightened degree of black-coloured cats, the assumption of a magical lingering is more than likely to be posited. Temperament The Temperament of Mimsy Cats differs as a result of the characters that surround it. Regarding mundane folk, Mimsy Cats behave with a peculiar mischievous spirit. Being where they are not supposed to be. Prodding at things not meant to be prodded. Among Voidal and dark magic users this mischievous spirit does not depart, however, a Mimsy Cat would additionally act with a warmness uncharacteristic of even domestic cats. Frequent offerings of misplaced items, birds, mice, and other little creatures are often made by Mimsy Cats to these occult proponents and are typical of their behaviour. As for users of deific powers, all previous characteristics vanish and are replaced with wariness. Ability: The Sìth Sense The only variance of Mimsy Cats to that of a mundane cat is the ability of the Sìth Sense. The Sìth pertains to the sensation of magic; a sensation within, i.e. the mana within a person of which the Mimsy Cat has a sensibility, and the mana suspended in the air which is used by various practitioners, e.g. Kani.[12] This ability of the Mimsy Cat requires no direct sight of the target/s as it relates to a lingering quality like smell, therefore, obstacles such as walls, trees, or any form of obstruction merely dampen the sensation without entirely erasing it. The Sìth Sense has a radial range of ten (10), blocks from the Mimsy Cat, and requires the use of two (2), emotes to be activated. The Ability once activated can last indefinitely. A Mimsy Cat within 10 blocks of a character with an appropriate MA in a Voidal, dark, or deific magic are acutely aware of their presence. Does not require direct sight. Cannot be obstructed by walls, trees, or any other objects. requires the use of 2 emotes to be activated. Once activated can last for an entire encounter. Mimsy Cats are untamable by ordinary players and are primarily only usable as wild, feral creatures or under the employment of Event NPCs. The Mimsy Language The uncanny attributes of the Mimsy Cat allow for an equally uncanny apparatus of communication. The Mimsy language differs from any other form of phonemic or lexical systems, consequently, any form of replication by a creature other than a Mimsy Cat is hitherto impossible. To the ears of those not a Mimsy Cat, padding, prodding, and purring are the only decipherable symptoms of communication.[7] The Mimsy language cannot be spoken by any other playable/non-playable entities. Padding, prodding, and purring are the only decipherable symptoms of communication. Grammatical Outline Credits to ImStuckInHell for support and the grammatical outline. The Mimsy language is a language of lexical stress, following a basic SVO (Subject-Verb-Object) structure. Gendered nouns, adjectives, and verbs are not employed. Adjectives and adverbs bind after nouns and verbs through the use of a hyphen (-). Further, articles attach themselves at the end of the previous word with a singular quotation (‘), regardless of it being a noun, verb, or adjective. If an article begins a sentence, the apostrophe should be omitted. Plurality in the Mimsy Language has a single form; denoted by a tilde “~”. In the case of a conjoined adjective or article, plurality is denoted after the adjective. Diminutives and augmentatives do not appear in the Mimsy lexis. Acknowledgements @ImStuckInHell - Suggestions @Gustando - Editing & Suggestions @shartings - Editing & Suggestions @Tentoa - Feedback & Additions References Herodotus. (n.d.). Histories. Benediction Classics. McNeill, L. S. (2007). Cats, Folklore, and the Experiential Source Hypothesis. What are the animals to us?: approaches from science, religion, folklore, literature, and art, 5. Darnton, Robert. (1984). The great cat massacre and other episodes in French cultural history. New York: Basic Books. Matthews, J., & Matthews, C. (2009). The Element encyclopedia of magical creatures: the ultimate A-Z of fantastic beings from myth and magic. Harper Element Soseki Natsume. (n.d.). I am a cat. アイビーシーパブリッシング 日本洋書販売. Lawrence, E. A. (2003). Feline Fortunes: Contrasting Views of Cats in Popular Culture. The Journal of Popular Culture, 36(3), 623–635. @TojoTime @Sporadichttps://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/19254-recovering-the-ancient-tongue-of-the-elves/ @Zarsies @Gamma Deborah MacGillivray. (2012). Cait Sidhe. Web.archive.org. https://web.archive.org/web/20120821034420/https://deborahmacgillivray.co.uk/scotlore_caitsidhe.html @shartings

[!] The following would be obnoxiously pinned across all available flat surfaces - including all the various Almarian mothers. Netzhal Kazimira Othaman: the subterranean scamp, wanter of wenches, calamitous cretin, and correspondent of the third-person wishes to mingle with all those principal patrons and esoteric enjoyers of literature and knowledge. Should you fit into these aforementioned categories, seek the smelly tavern situated in the Orenian undercity. Worst regards [!] The following incomplete manuscript would also be attached. Narbith - Netzhal Kazimira Othaman

[!] The following incomplete manuscript would make its way around all those shabby circles of literates and literacy. Or perhaps it was found on a certain abnormal advertisement. Narbith Netzhal Kazimira Othaman A Castle of Peculiar Consitution Narbith: A castle of peculiar constitution, cast its shadow evilly over an encasing forest teaming with all the fell things that inhabited the world. The main massing of stone, that is, the original dwelling of House Creak, jutted out like a lone candelabra, gnarled and clinging to a circumfusion of floating balusters, the stone perpetually thawing with a stalactitic quality of melting wax. Skein-like dwellings clung about this assemblage of unnatural stone like molluscs to a rock, the lacunas hollowed by the denizens of these dwellings crept fungally, up, and up, seemingly appearing of themselves, or so the Duke of Castle Narbith would Groan. Equally cretinous characters comprised the swarming architecture nestled snuggly at the foot of the castle, enshaded in the umbral cast of the towering stone and thick-limbed trees. Little imparting was made between the castle proper and the decrepit denizens of the encompassing village Skëorn, although it could be concluded that the sprouting of those clinging dwellings was the doing of these substraten residents. I Cast away in the infesting sprawl of the Skëorn, a forlorn hovel of no discernable feature was presided over by the occupant Spindle, a man unsightly in figure and cantankerous in spirit. One dark afternoon, whose noonday gloom would appear uncanny to those unfamiliar with the nature of Castle Narbith, the man Spindle pranced about his dilapidated abode, chattering to himself in a truculent fashion. Spindle’s words seemed to carry easily in this particular nondescript recess of the Skëorn, aided by a half-fathom of water that pooled to his boney knees, echoing his babble with a dialogic quality. “Yesh the gate! Yesh,” Spindle barked, “That vill do, yesh, yesh indeed it vill!” “But vat of the Bunyans, yesh and the Gimblehawksh, the Goblintrollsh too, and the Onion Eatersh” “Do not forget the Rotary Robinsh of a Rakishh Reputation,” he replied with a cackle. “Bah! ish it imposshible? Ish it? I think not.” “It ish not…” “Then it vill be done. Ve jump shaid gate, then up, up, up, and up again to the very top of the cashtle, perhapsh we pay the Duke a vishit, eh? Eh!” Spindle said, his spidery arms clung about what little figure of his was left consolingly, “Are ye not up for it? Are you not? I did not take ye for a coward… But alash, what can be done, eh?” Thereupon Spindle outstretched, his form unravelling outwards like the skeletal structure of a kite bound together with patchworked rags. His two beady eyes, if you could call them that, were glazed with an ineffectual milken hue, yet the manner in which he carried himself, and the manner in which he gangled, betrayed any semblance of sightlessness. “Fine!” he barked, donning a brightly embroidered eye cover of a similar ragged patchwork, “Good heavensh, I can shee now, oh how good it ish, oh yesh!” Having concluded his false dialogue and having solved his equally false unsight, Spindle scuttled out of the forlorn hovel of no discernable feature, moving along the well-hidden pathways of slopping earth that only a truly wretched denizen of the Skëorn would employ. II Beneath a massing of time-gnawed turrets and up through endless aged stoneworked passages and manifolds, upon the seven-hundredth-and-fifty-second floor of the Castle Narbith, past the forty-second preceding archway with a moon-leaking embrasure, lived a boy named Guile. A boy of sound mind yet plain countenance. He was clad in fine raiments of sea silk, wrought from the fillaments of metre-long molluscs native to the eastern shores, and were it not for its flayed fringes and its sheer overdrapery the thing would be considered elegant. His chin was smooth, for he was not of the age to consider shaving. His eyes were shadowed by an overbearing brow. His neck mired with epidemic spots, blazened and angry. The boy sat musingly. His legs splayed about the chill floor in a hollowed out chamber devoid of any clutter, his sole companion a solitary door of heavy wood. This particular door was left ajar whereat a cool breeze crept through, superimposing itself over the floor and adding to its bitting. A ***** rapping resounded at the door, and then another softer rap, or perhaps it was a tap, and then a third. The rapping was an odd thing, for a massing of dirty rags pitched over a spindly frame, clutered up the entirety of the doorframe in clear view of the boy, unobstructed and unneeded. “The kitchen, vhere ish it?” the figure paused, gazing about the empty room with veiled eyes clad in some colourful patchwork, “Veird place eh, empty, very empty, and cold!” “I do not think so,” Guile replied awkwardly, following the figure’s odd gaze, “Follow the hall up the stairs, and then down, and down again, spin on the spot, take a right by the moon-leaking embrasure, and then a left past the cat with one eye, up another flight of stairs, and it is on your left.” “Many thanksh,” the figure replied, darting out as quickly as it appeared. A question rankled Guile, for the halls upon the seven-hundredth-and-fifty-second floor past the forty-second preceding archway with a moon-leaking embrasure were entirely forgotten and untreaded, hidden amongst countless identical turnoffs, alleys, and doors of the castle. An unfamiliar shuffle resounded once again outside Guile’s hitherto quiet dwelling. A lingering of padded feet and a flapping of matted fur sealed this unfamiliar gait until it came into sight of the boy. Before Guile stood a Bunyan. Darkly furred with the quality of thistle. A rictus snarl revealing wicked teeth plastered over a bestial skull of the shape of a great ape. Stout in stature and menacing four spans above the floor. The boy would have cowered ought it not for a familiarity with the nature of Bunyans - as all subjects of Narbith were, and a sharp transformation of mood seized him. “A creature of the forest now calls to visit. In the wake of another his stop’s explicit.” It did not seem that such a zoic thing could usher any utterance, yet as the boy’s words left his mouth and danced upon his lips with exceedingly poetic spirit the Bunyan returned in a gnomey tone: “An iamb, and hexametre too; Thou ought to have heard the Bunyan’s game. Perhaps thou knows of the riddles fame? Answer me wrong and thy flesh I’ll stew!” “Four jolly men sat down to play, and played all night till break of day. They played for gold and not for fun, with separate scores for every one. Yet when they came to square accounts, they all had made quite fair amounts! Can you the paradox explain? If no one lost, how could all gain?” The riddle tumbled in his mind’s ear. Gnawing, festering for a time, repeating and bubbling into images commuting to the facilities of the mind’s eye. As Guile sat before the Bunyan in his cold recess high atop the strange gathering of stone called Narbith, a sole thought flashed in his head: The answer. “Musicians. The players were musicians,” he hummed jovially, permitting a smile to wash over his face. The Manifold of Duke Creak A lone marble dais presided over an encompassing sea of stone that was the manifold of Duke Creak. Lone and crested by a throne of a similar gilded marble. Lone like a conical lump of wax bathing in the gentle lustre of its solitude. A lone dais like a single peak And an empty chamber. Lone and raised like the castle itself. The manifold was of pristine condition, an oddity against the cluttered apparatus that was Narbith with its branching halls of aged stone. The Duke sat atop this particular assemblage of marble, cast in the silent brooding of those men familiar with an esteemed stationage. His hair was of a messy brown. His body, boyishly gangly and clad in silk raiments of a haar-like quality, sheer and unobstructive of his lank. The expanse that was the empty stone bellow the Duke’s seating stretched outwards and to his sides a hundred spans, wherein a looming arched door vacillated between open-and-shut to administer a flock of attendees and servants. They scurried about, and about, until the snapping character of the Duke announced itself: “Intruders, and then a Bunyan! wandering my halls for all of three days. And you all teem about me with your nonsense. Your nonsense tasks, and nonsense hushed utterances… like I am in need of your attendance. Begone with you all. Vacate my sight and find me these annoyances at once!” And with that, they scattered epidemically, pervading through the sole outlet of the manifold and into the winding stone vascularity of the castle’s many corridors. The Duke became lost again in his solitude. What thoughts penetrated his mind. What thoughts contributed to his silent brooding. It would have been impossible to know. He watched as an idle lump of wax dripped from an overhanging candelabrum onto the floor, tempering as it struck into stone and interrupted the silence of the room. And then again was the sanctitude of the Duke’s chamber interrupted as a loud rapping resounded at the door. His eyes took on the cast of ire. His hands gripped at the throne’s cold steel rails. A solitary vein writhing under the hand's skin marked his displeasure. “What,” the Duke demanded when so suddenly the door was blasted asunder, violently swinging on too-old metal hinges, and with those movements emitting an aged screech and a fat voluminous figure into the manifold. “Thire,” a teetering blob of a man panted, his sickening figure forced into an all-too-small shirt of a navy fabric, amassing at the mighty buttons that contained his girth. His tortoise-like head protruded smally from the cavernous folds of his neck and was topped with a peaked cap - denoting him the warden of Castle Narbith. A lumpy wooden baton swayed from a suspected belt-fastened anchorage, hidden under the undulating mass of the wardens overhanging belly. The effect this creature produced was in spite of all that was the manifold of Duke Creak. This wretch that drew itself before the Duke pained his gaze and sullied his surroundings. And he was chiefest amongst his attendees. “Thire,” the warden continued, “We ought be r’warded for thith. We ought be r’warded for our ‘ard work. We found ‘em walthing abouts we did, up near tha theven-hundredth-and-fifty-thecond floor, past tha forty-thecond precedin archway with a moon-leakin embrajure.” A boney figure like an immense spider was brought before the Duke. His wrists only ceremonially bound on account of their slender nature and for all the world he would appear sightless, his eyes characterised by the limpid white so often seen with the blind. “Spindle,” the Duke announced. “Shpindle I am. Shpindling around and about. Shpindly in configuration. A Shpindler!,” the boney man cried, jumping a few inches into the air in spite of his assultive utterance. A funny little dance proceeded that jumpy display, whereat his weedy knees fluttered to a silent rhythm and shuttled up his torso like a wind caught banner. The extremities of the head, arms, feet, and hands caught up with no hurry, lagging behind the main massing of patchworked cloth and flapped about flaccidly to his ***** jig. “Oh how ve did missh you Shire, oh yesh ve did mish you very much. Had to shpend shome time down in the Shkëorn - that vas all. “So it was you? Entering unannounced. The cause of the alarm?” the Duke asked. “Oh yesh, although it vash not jusht ush. Another trailed in behind. A Bunyan, yesh.” “And you brough it in with you, hm?” “Yesh,” the lanky man returned. “So not only does my retainer journey off on some nonsense escapade, he makes sure to let in whatever cretinous wildlife scurried after him? Nonsense! It is all just nonsense! Come Spindle, you will aid me in ridding the grounds of this thing. You are a man of rhythm? A man of metre and feet. Of lexical stress and all that other nonsense. Well you proclaim yourself to be, no? Come now! Off we go.”

Oh joy! He writes well.

A New Player’s Story TL;DR Looking for people to roleplay with + some creative writing Firstly I must confess to my serial lurking tendencies. Seven months of on-and-off observation, lore reading, and general interest in the dingy corners of the internet later and I have bitten the bullet. Social life be damned! Honestly, from the smidgen of lore and various posts I have read the world that has been created here is bonkers. That being said, I am excited to satiate my appetite for roleplaying… The italics are not a key slip - I am fully committing to this and I hope I am conveying my excitement and dedication to the role. Think Christian Bale in American Psycho. We are talking about a frightening degree of immersion. There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman Spindle, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me. Only an entity, something illusory. Usually, I would not go to such lengths as to announce something of this sort, however, as I have noticed over my short observatory tenure here I am just scraping the surface of what the Lord of the Craft can offer. I have also noticed a trend in the phenomena of the self-titled “New Player Introductory Introduction.” So what groups, cliques, gaggles, cabals, and friendly groups of anonymous friends are yet to be discovered. To add to this, and perhaps stake my claim on this subforum, I have composed a sort of early manuscript of a heavily inspired story from both aspects of LOTC, and my own interests and readings (I have left clues to who sparked this inspiration. Iykyk. [Also! Yes the brackets go deeper. My writing style is littered with allusions, schizophrenia-ridden sentences, neologisms {Invented words. Wow never thought we would get here}, and general disregard for grammar, so my apologies are stated here in advance] Also if you wish to hijack this post and drop your favourite book or author as a reply you are more than welcome). Take a glance. Have a read. You are all some form of faux editor or publishing house. Elaine (Or Ela, El, Elie… Or just Spindle) Narbith Sometimes I shit myself cus I like the feeling of my pants filling up Carti A Castle of Peculiar Consitution Narbith: A castle of peculiar constitution, cast its shadow evilly over an encasing forest teaming with all the fell things that inhabited the world. The main massing of stone, that is, the original dwelling of House Creak, jutted out like a lone candelabra, gnarled and clinging to a circumfusion of floating balusters, the stone perpetually thawing with a stalactitic quality of melting wax. Skein-like dwellings clung about this assemblage of unnatural stone like molluscs to a rock, the lacunas hollowed by the denizens of these dwellings crept fungally, up, and up, seemingly appearing of themselves, or so the Duke of Castle Narbith would Groan. Equally cretinous characters comprised the swarming architecture nestled snuggly at the foot of the castle, enshaded in the umbral cast of the towering stone and thick-limbed trees. Little imparting was made between the castle proper and the decrepit denizens of the encompassing village Skëorn, although it could be concluded that the sprouting of those clinging dwellings was the doing of these substraten residents. Cast away in the infesting sprawl of the Skëorn, a forlorn hovel of no discernable feature was presided over by the occupant Spindle, a man unsightly in figure and cantankerous in spirit. One dark afternoon, whose noonday gloom would appear uncanny to those unfamiliar with the nature of Castle Narbith, the man Spindle pranced about his dilapidated abode, chattering to himself in a truculent fashion. Spindle’s words seemed to carry easily in this particular nondescript recess of the Skëorn, aided by a half-fathom of water that pooled to his boney knees, echoing his babble with a dialogic quality. “Yesh the gate! Yesh,” Spindle barked, “That vill do, yesh, yesh indeed it vill!” “But vat of the Bunyans, yesh and the Gimblehawksh, the Goblintrollsh too, and the Onion Eatersh” “Do not forget the Rotary Robinsh of a Rakishh Reputation,” he replied with a cackle. “Bah! ish it imposshible? Ish it? I think not.” “It ish not…” “Then it vill be done. Ve jump shaid gate, then up, up, up, and up again to the very top of the cashtle, perhapsh we pay the Duke a vishit, eh? Eh!” Spindle said, his spidery arms clung about what little figure of his was left consolingly, “Are ye not up for it? Are you not? I did not take ye for a coward… But alash, what can be done, eh?” Thereupon Spindle outstretched, his form unravelling outwards like the skeletal structure of a kite bound together with patchworked rags. His two beady eyes, if you could call them that, were glazed with an ineffectual milken hue, yet the manner in which he carried himself, and the manner in which he gangled, betrayed any semblance of sightlessness. “Fine!” he barked, donning a brightly embroidered eye cover of a similar ragged patchwork, “Good heavensh, I can shee now, oh how good it ish, oh yesh!” Having concluded his false dialogue and having solved his equally false unsight, Spindle scuttled out of the forlorn hovel of no discernable feature, moving along the well-hidden pathways of slopping earth that only a truly wretched denizen of the Skëorn would employ. Guile Beneath a massing of time-gnawed turrets and up through endless aged stoneworked passages and manifolds, upon the seven-hundredth-and-fifty-second floor of the Castle Narbith, past the forty-second preceding archway with a moon-leaking embrasure, lived a boy named Guile. A boy of sound mind yet plain countenance. He was clad in fine raiments of sea silk, wrought from the fillaments of metre-long molluscs native to the eastern shores, and were it not for its flayed fringes and its sheer overdrapery the thing would be considered elegant. His chin was smooth, for he was not of the age to consider shaving. His eyes were shadowed by an overbearing brow. His neck mired with epidemic spots, blazened and angry. The boy sat musingly. His legs splayed about the chill floor in a hollowed out chamber devoid of any clutter, his sole companion a solitary door of heavy wood. This particular door was left ajar whereat a cool breeze crept through, superimposing itself over the floor and adding to its bitting. A ***** rapping resounded at the door, and then another softer rap, or perhaps it was a tap, and then a third. The rapping was an odd thing, for a massing of dirty rags pitched over a spindly frame, clutered up the entirety of the doorframe in clear view of the boy, unobstructed and unneeded. “The kitchen, vhere ish it?” the figure paused, gazing about the empty room with veiled eyes clad in some colourful patchwork, “Veird place eh, empty, very empty, and cold!” “I do not think so,” Guile replied awkwardly, following the figure’s odd gaze, “Follow the hall up the stairs, and then down, and down again, spin on the spot, take a right by the moon-leaking embrasure, and then a left past the cat with one eye, up another flight of stairs, and it is on your left.” “Many thanksh,” the figure replied, darting out as quickly as it appeared. A question rankled Guile, for the halls upon the seven-hundredth-and-fifty-second floor past the forty-second preceding archway with a moon-leaking embrasure were entirely forgotten and untreaded, hidden amongst countless identical turnoffs, alleys, and doors of the castle. An unfamiliar shuffle resounded once again outside Guile’s hitherto quiet dwelling. A lingering of padded feet and a flapping of matted fur sealed this unfamiliar gait until it came into sight of the boy. Before Guile stood a Bunyan. Darkly furred with the quality of thistle. A rictus snarl revealing wicked teeth plastered over a bestial skull of the shape of a great ape. Stout in stature and menacing four spans above the floor. The boy would have cowered ought it not for a familiarity with the nature of Bunyans - as all subjects of Narbith were, and a sharp transformation of mood seized him. “A creature of the forest now calls to visit. In the wake of another his stop’s explicit.” It did not seem that such a zoic thing could usher any utterance, yet as the boy’s words left his mouth and danced upon his lips with exceedingly poetic spirit the Bunyan returned in a gnomey tone: “An iamb, and hexametre too; Thou ought to have heard the Bunyan’s game. Perhaps thou knows of the riddles fame? Answer me wrong and thy flesh I’ll stew!” “Four jolly men sat down to play, and played all night till break of day. They played for gold and not for fun, with separate scores for every one. Yet when they came to square accounts, they all had made quite fair amounts! Can you the paradox explain? If no one lost, how could all gain?” The riddle tumbled in his mind’s ear. Gnawing, festering for a time, repeating and bubbling into images commuting to the facilities of the mind’s eye. As Guile sat before the Bunyan in his cold recess high atop the strange gathering of stone called Narbith, a sole thought flashed in his head: The answer. “Musicians. The players were musicians,” he hummed jovially, permitting a smile to wash over his face. The Manifold of Duke Creak