[Phenoca]

From the creator of: Adventure in The Ice
...
Comes an Epic new Adventure - THE STORY OF JUAN

I will put each part in little '~' symbols, as they get written. Part 1 will come later, but for now:

~2~

Juan walked down Bob St., carrying a handful of flowers. They were lilacs, and if Juan had looked closely, he would have noticed the odd Hyacinth. Suddenly, Juan did look closely at the flowers, as he held them up in the fading light of the early evening.

“Why am I carrying this?” he wondered silently, and then gave a start, as his mind made an internal leap to the answer: he was carrying the lilacs (along with the odd Hyacinth) to the cemetery, because it was his sister’s birthday. As he recollected his mother’s orders for leaving the flowers upon Juan’s sister’s grave (his sister’s name was Rosemary), he vaguely wondered whether they would be having cake in order to celebrate… And then dismissed the idea.

*4.5±0.5 minutes later*

Juan stood in front of the flowers. He mumbled something under his breath and turned awkwardly to leave. The casual observer would have noticed that the flowers had been arranged radially with stems touching in the centre, and the hyacinths marking the gravestone’s caption, which read, simply, “Rosemary Du”.

Actually, the casual observer (a crow) marked none of this, except for the hyacinths, when a strong gust of wind blew them off of Rosemary’s gravestone, causing them to fall gently onto a second gravestone, captioned, “Regnar Du”.

Foreword: This is a fanfiction for Lint. All characters in this story belong to Colby Purnicellin; writing belongs to Diego Bank. More parts will be posted later.

[Phenoca]

~4~

Juan arrived at home and resumed his writing where he had left off. Discarding the scrap paper which housed an erratic summary of his last night’s mental dialogue, he dipped his pen into an inkjar and shifted within the uncomfortable chair at his desk, deigning, with the strong will and focus of a hare being pursued by vixen, to place the clear thoughts within his head onto the clear paper lying on the desk. What he wrote went roughly as follows,

The importance of chords being played in sets of three separate tones played simultaneously lies in the audience’s conditioning to associate pitch-intervals into three underlying categories. Firstly…

The document continued in this fashion for some while, until it’s writer, Juan, forgot what his reasoning was for the second case for mental-associability to musical harmonics. He turned in his chair, tilting it sideways so that he could slip his shin out past the chair and desk support without getting his thigh caught between the rim of the chair and the desk’s surface. Then, placing his foot upon the dull, flat wooden strips that made up his feet’s domain of the worn yet smooth boundaries of his family’s one-story (ignoring the cellar, which was of negligible importance) residence, he tilted the chair back upon its rearmost leg (this was a four-legged chair, in case you were curious), and (favouring his outer leg) swung the leg inside of the desk-to-chair enclave to follow in-suite with the outer leg and escape from the enclave through the very same opening which his outer leg had previously swung through! Juan made a preemptive hop to avoid catching the inner face of his ankle against the heavy tip of the chair as it swung to hit his mobile foot which instead cleared the desk-to-chair enclave in the nick of time! The chair had swung in the first place only because Juan had let it to pivot, with a light, passing grip on the back of the chair, which had allowed it to pivot away from him on its rear-leg (which was touching the floor at the side closest to him). This was why – from previous experience with chair legs – Juan had deemed it necessary to hop.

Only to fall down anyways, and flip two pages of the book lent to him by his teacher, which was lying face-up upon the dull, flat wooden strips, that made up his knees’ domain of the boundaries of his family’s one-story residence.

In fact, it was a hovel, and it was in this studious yet… I do not know how to describe it. Joan is kneeling on the floor after getting up from his desk. Who knows what relevance the book had to the mental-associability to musical harmonics that he was writing about – because that isn’t the point – not really; in fact, the point is, he was – at this very instant – INTERRUPTED.

Albeit, it was a very short/tiny interruption, and of rather nonprolonged duration (Joan’s brother had learnt through trial-and-error that whooshing a door open rapidly is, nine times out of ten, quite quieter than painstakingly opening the door gradually (even lifting a little to avoid scraping hinges) with the intent of not disturbing anyone. Perhaps, had Joan’s brother known it, this rapid door-opening technique only worked seven times out of ten. Nevertheless, it was in this fashion that Joan’s brother opened the door: rapidly – only to have the door give a momentous “CREEAK”, as the torque is reversed before stopping its angular momentum. All that Joan’s brother observed , however, was that the door (nine times – or seven) out of ten had accentuated his entrance with a “CREEEEEEAK” just before he had been about to stop the door! I must point out at this point, that having a door go creak just before its angular momentum is stopped is, in fact, the worst time for a door to go creak, because one gets the impression that had he or she stopped the door earlier, then the door would not have gone creak. Neither Juan nor his brother knew that the creak-effect was due solely to torque and friction. Perhaps, had one of them learned this, then Juan’s brother (let us call him Regnar, as this is his name actually) wouldn’t have opened the offending door with a “whoosh” (and distinguishable (in Juan’s opinion, but not Regnar’s)) C#.

It was in this manner that Juan was at this very instant -INTERRUPTED-. So Juan said the first thing that came to his mind, “Hi Mom”.
“Lol” replied Regnar, in a jovial fashion.
“Yo,” returned Juan, with a slight audible feeling of lowered self-esteem.
“Guess what?” intoned Regnar, quietly shutting the door behind him.
“Congratulations,” beckoned Juan (yes he beckoned), smiling at the wall between them (this is not a metaphor – it is just that a wall that happens to be in the house) and standing-up to cross the dull, flat wooden strips of the floor, which was now all the less dustier for his knees’ visitations. This is what he did, as Juan’s brother Regnar crossed the threshold to their hovel, took off his moccasins and… Ignoring the beckoning of Juan’s voice, walked instead towards the kitchen.

[Phenoca]

~5~

Their rendezvous was in the kitchen. A third party had graciously appeared to sup with them, in form, no less, of supper. It was excellent. The food, the rendezvous, and most effectively (yet least noticeable) the air of festivity. For Regnar had accomplished his life’s desire of joining the militia.

Last year had been a failure. The interviews (which Juan preferred to call skirmishes) had been rather eventful last year, due to the fact that Regnar – hmm, let us explain this first – the militia are an elite group of Rascaline (the city where Regnar, Juan, and their mother Beatrice live). It is run by the Elites (named for their elitist-attitudes towards the middle-class, and complete ignorance of all lower-class civilians), who fund the town militia for the defense and pride of Rascaline. It is the most honoured job in this city, where honour is seldom – if ever – considered an aspect of life. But honourable this job was, and that is why Regnar wanted to join. Yet I still am not getting to the point. The point is that when Regnar accidentally stabbed a fellow militia applicant in the cheek, the fellow (a son of one of Rascaline’s Elites) had thought a bit much of his cheek, and promptly snapped Regnar’s defenses in half (a non-sharpened wooden spear), and proceeded to beat him. This behaviour was encouraged during interviews/skirmishes, yet resulted in Regnar being in no shape to join the militia. Allow me to exaggerate:

John approached Regnar, taking care to wipe the smirk off his face as he challenged his foe. Regnar was wearing a red bandana about his eyes, with a second purple bandana tied underneath. This was to prevent him from cheating, and seeing John. Interviews had to be done based on hearing and intuition. Only the most agile (or the strongest) applicants get to join the Rascaline Militia.

Regnar stood, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He shortened his stance, squatting low to the ground with his spear thrust in front of him, perfectly even with the horizontal ground. Instinctively ignoring the background noise of the attending Elites and talkative observers, Regnar focussed on his feet, waiting for the instant when his opponent, John Doar, would give away his position. Regnar had witnessed too many instances when an opponent had snuck-up behind the blindfoldee and delivered a swift blow with their wooden axe, incapacitating the blindfoldees before they had a chance to strike back.

John shifted the grip on his axe-handle. He wished that it had been a weighted axe, instead of the flimsy wooden weaponry that they were given for doing interviews. Suddenly, as he approached Regnar, John saw movement flash in the corner of his vision, and realized – too late – that Regnar had detected his approach. John raised his wooden axe to block the swing, but at the same time, Regnar’s wooden spear (staff? It was rather too long for a staff, so we’ll call it a spear) connected with John’s cheek. The pain was unbearable.

Regnar hoped that he had not hit a bystander. His hopes were confirmed when he heard John give a shout – anyone in Rascaline could associate that shout with the Doar family – it was a very loud and authoritative shout, but this shout in particular carried a malice not often conveyed in public. John was upon Regnar in an instant. The first blow Regnar blocked instinctively, associating John’s movement-pattern with the pattern shown in previous interviews. But as the axe thumped into Regnar’s spear/staff, he felt the impact penetrating into the wood so deeply that he feared it might snap. Stepping back to give himself room, Regnar felt a jarring pain in his left hand, which secured the spear, and had to let go of his weapon. It was at this point, as Regnar saw through his blindfolds the sun being blocked by the hurtling face and axe of John Doar, that Regnar realized he was about to lose this interview.

But it was April again! Time for youths to prove their prowess in combat. And an opportunity for the militia of last year to terminate their contracts, which held them to such a rigorous yet boring occupation. Most militia were sent on “patrols”. Others were guards, and yet others were in charge of “crime-management”, which could only be handled by the Elites’ most trusted members of the militia. And this April, Regnar had passed his interview (likely, he believed, due to the absence of John from the applicants). In fact, John Doar was on patrol right now, leading a patrol to the Plains of Woe (which lay westward and northward of Rascaline). Juan knew all of this, so Regnar skipped the details and launched into an exuberant (and because of his exuberance, very entertaining) story of his interview with Garthrew Thresher. I will skip the details, because it is more exciting to hear the story from Regnar himself, rather than from myself. In fact, he would probably be very pleased to hear you ask.

[Phenoca]

~3~

Fangline the elf trundled through the eastern grasses of the Plains of Woe. The excitement and mirth, and sadness and despair of his escape from Schloeffelonia (the Elven Kingdom) had worn-off, after his troubles in Pixie Pass, and the lack of food in the Plains of Woe. In short, he was very tired. In detail: He was a weary traveller, fatigued from thirst and hunger, on the last steps that his shaking legs could give him. His feet felt – well let’s not delve into the utter dreadful condition of Fangline’s feet – but his feet were hurting him, and his stomach – oh, it was a stomach no longer, but a pompous trumpeter, exclaiming in laborious and incessant repetition all that was wrong with the world, to all who would listen. And Fangline listened, for there was not much right in the world, and there was much wrongness, and it seemed, as Fangline stumbled through the snickering grasses of the plains, that most of this wrongness was directed at him. He considered suicide. Deciding that he did not yet have a valid case for shooting himself in the head, he considered instead, the alluring, tantalizing option of sleep. And sleep he did, with his royal heirloom to the throne (a unique Elven ring) clasped in his pocket, and his other hand grasping his other possession (a unique Dwarven revolver). It was a sunny afternoon, and nobody noticed the unconscious Elf in their fields. It would be nice to say that somebody did, but I don’t think there was, or the disaster that begun in Rascaline may have been delayed, or beyond all hope, extinguished before it began.

[Phenoca]

~7~

“Do you know who your partner is for guard duty?” inquired Juan.
“No, I’ll meet him at the gate,” responded Regnar, “he’ll be there at eight o’clock.”
“What do you need to bring?” asked Juan.
“Just my night supplies,” Regnar stated, “I’m getting everything from the barracks tomorrow morning,” he concluded.
“Want me to pack a sandwhich?”
“Sure. Thanks,” amended Regnar, rising-up and – nearly hitting his head on the ceiling, rushing into the cellar to root about for his portable ruck skin water container. After some shuffling of urns, and quickly running-upstairs to grab his pack and a wool blanket, Regnar obtained the container, and stowed it in his pack. Later-on, he was reminded – with much thanks from Regnar – of the need to fill it with water before departing. But before that occurred, Regnar and Juan made sandwiches. Juan was a nice guy, so he made extra in case Regnar’s partner forgot to bring some, but then Regnar thought better of it, so they ended-up eating the extra sandwiches, and by that time it was like ten minutes to eight, and Regnar ran out the door, which is when Juan reminded him to fill-up his water container, and then he ran out the door again, and Juan smiled, and tried to remember what he had been writing about, before Regnar had burst in the door that morning, and told him about his interviews skirmishes.

[Phenoca]

~6~

Fangline heard a cry from above. It was too high-pitched to be a bird of prey, and Fangline knew that birds of prey did not roam the plains so far from a roost. Unless he was nearing a collection of trees, which may have increased the probability of finding shelter, possibly in the form of housing. Feeling rested-enough, Fangline rolled into a sitting position, and used his right hand to level himself out of the grasses, his rotational momentum allowing him to stand by pushing-up off his hand and left foot. Suddenly dizzy, from his rest in the quite inhospitable bedroom of grasses of roots which now were making their own abode in the tangles of his hair, Fangline lost his balance. I should say that he lost his footing. It was really the grass’s fault, since his ankle had gotten tangled in the obnoxious weeds. Thus aborting his attempt at standing, Fangline gracefully shifted into a squat. The proper analogy to apply would be a cat attempting to enter or leave a window, only to realize for the first time, that glass is an impassable substance, and then gracefully abort the attempt in order to act as nonchalant as possible. This can give the impression to the glass window that it does not exist, but the cat does not realize that it has been exceedingly rude to the window by ignoring its presence, and it is thus that Elves, in their nonchalance and seeming-inattention to their surroundings, convey the message that they are arrogant and cold, even when they are only trying to shrug-off their mistakes or at least hide the original intention of having attempted an action which has failed. It was thus that Fangline rose gracefully into a squat, while attempting to stand-up. The high-pitched cry which had sounded before, sounded once again, yet this time, Fangline was able to perceive its source.
“Yeeeaargh! He lives!”
“Call back Boromir,” ordered a monotone voice which Juan would have easily recognized as belonging to John Doar. What John’s friends also recognized was a tinge – or perhaps not a tinge, but an overflowing dam – of excitement to John’s tone, indicated by the slight increase in the pace of his wording near the end of his sentences, as well as an abnormally raised pitch at the beginning of each sentence.
“Yessir,” replied a third voice. Fangline heard saw a figure turn to dash-off in a random direction, and then saw the cape-clad figure of John Doar draw near. It was a rather simple cloak, yet as it billowed fancifully in the wind of this bright, sunny afternoon, Fangline judged the cape as rather posh. And exceedingly tacky.
“You! What,” began John, in a halting speech, as his eyes grew (note: his eyes do not grow, just the amount of surface area revealed by the lifting of his eyebrows) to regard Fangline, “What are you?!” queried John in a most obnoxious manner, pointing his hand at Fangline with his elbow held at such an angle so as to drag the cape off of his opposite shoulder (though the elbow was only raised such so as shield John from any sudden blows which he deemed Fangline to be capable of delivering, from several feet away (if his friends hadn’t been just as scared of Fangline, then John would have been ashamed to have given such an unmanly hand-gesture, which has have accusatory, half cringing)).
“Prince Fangline of the royal house Schloeffel of Schloeffelonia.” replied Fangline annoyedly, pausing to allow reverent acknowledgement of his position (I bet you didn’t know Fangline was a Prince... In order to clear-up some plot-holes, I highly recommend versing yourself on Fangline’s heritage at the Lint webcomic, available via Google), which did not come from the bystanders; “Look, if you don’t have anything useful to say, just leave and get me your food,” ordered Fangline, in a dismissive manner. This order was followed by a pause. Fangline, his mind often able to jump to ingenious conclusions, was at this point analyzing the possible reasons why these people were not obeying him. Perhaps they did not believe him. No, perhaps in this offish place, nobody had ever heard of house Schloeffel!
“Get back, Elf!” yelled the high-pitched voice from before, “Or...”
“Lay down your weapons,” intoned John, placing a gentle yet restraining hand on his comrade’s shoulder. “Don’t run, or I’ll shoot,” he finished, attempting to indicate a third companion, and then realizing that his third companion had run off to recall Boromir, who had been sent to warn the city of possible danger from monsters. He had not been associating Fangline as a type of monster, but rather as a victim of unexpected monster-attacks, which was quite unexpected in the plains, yet possible. The actual presence of an Elf, however, in the midst of humans, was dangerous. This did not bode well.
“Elf?” asked the young man with the high-pitched voice, which had now lowered considerably, now that he had stopped panicking (with the realization that John was now in control of the situation). “Heh heh hah!” he chuckled, stepping nearer, and leering down at Fangline. Extremely disgruntled by the lack of politeness of these humans – Fangline smirked – humans were an inferior race of mortals doomed to die soon after birth. They could not even outlive trees. But, sensing a tension to which Fangline was unaccustomed to, he decided that it was best if he did not smirk, and instead opted for kindness, “Shack-dweller, do you know where -” Fangline began, only to be interrupted.
“Get down! Elf!” screeched John, infuriated (Elites did not live in shacks). Jumping forth to strike Fangline in the ear, John wielded his axe hilt viciously (an axe hilt would actually be called a shaft, so it would suffice to say that Fangline got shafted by John) and ordered his companion to pin-down Fangline’s arms. Fangline was dismayed that the companion with the high-pitched voice only gave a slight pause before doing so, but he was even more dismayed that he was being treated like a hen for slaughter, beaten with viciousness, and... Feeling the cartilage in his ear being crushed, Fangline cried loudly in frustration. Another insult was yelled by John, but Fangline wasn’t paying attention, and when the next blow connected with his face, he was quite unable to pay attention to anything, as he had fallen unconscious.

“It looks like a goblin,” said Dorwin, peering at Fangline’s pointed ears, and wondering why one was swollen red and hanging-lower than the other. But it was not so much a curiosity as to Dorwin’s curiosity at Fangline’s presence. The high-pitched man and Dorwin quitely discussed Fangline, as John and Boromir carried the Elf by his hands and feet, John at the feet, and Boromir at the head. John had taken care to disarm Fangline of his rapier, which was, of course, of the highest quality available in Schloeffelonia, which was to say that the rapier had no equal in the City of Rascals. The high-pitched man was upset to see such a weapon left behind in the grasses of the plains, and so was carrying it through the grasses, observing how the light shone of its length, and how easily it cut the dry shafts of grass that lay before and about him. Though their four-person patrol had not detected any goblins, griffons, edible meat or the rare imp (which made excellent soup, but which was also rather a challenge to kill), they had secured an Elven Spy, and who knew what invaluable secrets it would reveal to the Elites in the City of Rascals. Had Fangline’s close relatives known the hands that Fangline’s fate and unconscious body now lay in, they would have instantly forgiven him any misgivings, and gladly accepted him back home. Unfortunately, none of Fangline’s relatives knew where he was, and if they had come to rescue him that very day (somehow traversing the leagues which Fangline had traversed in a split instant, and knowing exactly where Fangline was located without any possibility of locating him without tracking his entire journey from Schloeffelonia), then Fangline’s life may have been forfeit that afternoon, killed for being an Elven Spy. I will also add that Schloeffelonia is the most peaceful country in the world. If you should perchance to visit, you should know that there is nothing there that will do harm to you intentionally, although its people are a tad... Refined, which is often mistaken for arrogance and coldness. It did not help Fangline’s situation that the City of Rascals was the most impoverished city on the continent (being second-largest with a dazzling population of over 60,000 humans), whereas Schloeffelonia was itself the richest kingdom since the beginning of recorded history (for human historians – not Elves).

[nice]

no one else is here and the story is confusing but I read some and it is great but more people need to come

[Phenoca]

~8~

It had been an Age and a half since Regnar had picked-up a book, and he strongly doubted ever having read a book on history. In fact, he secretly hoped that Juan would not ask him questions on the history of music, because Cacophony to Harmony: Horns Through the Centuries, did not look like a particularly appealing title. Regnar strode to the gate with satchel in hand, his brother’s teacher’s book as well as his sandwiches and water supplies packed tightly inside. He looked-up at the menacing structure of stone and iron that stood before him and smiled. Lightly tossing his satchel onto the ground, he leapt onto the wide stone railing that lead to the walkway above the gate. Most of the City of Rascals was surrounded by a double wood palisade, broken in some places where city-dwellers had deemed it important to remove a few choice bits of wood in order to improve (or create) a shelter. In the poorer district of the city, the inner wall was completely removed, with only securely-grounded stumps of wood to indicate where the palisade had once been. But the outer palisade was righteously maintained by the militia of Rascaline, and no piece of wood was allowed to fall out of place without an onset of carpenters to replace it. In fact, so devotedly did the militia tends its palisade, that it was a small tragedy that only a few guards were able to be situated at regions of the wall where palisade turned to strong blocks of stone, and the strength of Rascaline was apparent in the carefully hewn cuts of rock and mortar that made-up the three main gates to Rascaline (there were five gates in total, yet only the three of them were crafted in stone, and in the perception of Rascals (people who inhabit Rascaline, which is the area surrounding and including the City of Rascals), the stone gates were of impeccable workmanship).

Crossing the gate’s two opening-mechanisms which lay across the top of the stone walkway, Regnar pranced inside of the Construct. It was an ancient Construct, elaborated-upon over the years by various militia who had taken their turns at guarding the gate. Unlike the complex gears and levers and – possibly a sailboat steering wheel – that composed the gate’s opening-mechanisms, the Construct was a simple deal of wood and cloth and bits of stuff. In fact, it was originally three poles with a cloak draped overtop, but now, in this age of Science, it had become a much greater assembly of materials, ranging from every single thing you will find lying around, to the very hair off of people’s heads, used to tie-together the loose end and that stick that was always leaning-over too much, and the this and that. In fact, the Construct had gone from being a mere 0.8meter-high tepee to a grand fabrication of ingenuity and art, crouching in the lee of the stone wall, as if it had always belonged there. Regnar loved the Construct, and fingered the blue trap that had been set across the erratically-shingled ceiling of the Construct. It would take pages to describe every thought and detail that had gone into the creation and enhancement of the Construct, and they would be very interesting and amusing pages, as the Construct was just that – a shelter created by men who needed protection against the elements. In the eyes of the militia, each Construct (for there were many now that the method of staying dry during the summer, and warm during the winter had bounded through the ranks to become practically a fad) was a second home. A tribute to creativity and Science. It is just as well that their wives did not know of what service the Constructs purposed, as they had a very low opinion of each Construct, and to be frank, it was some sort of cross between a garden overgrown with assorted weeds, and a hut (the weeds being a simile for the materials that this hut consisted of). The only people who were really ever concerned with true Science were the Dwarves of the Twisty Mountains, as well as the odd magic practitioner.

Regnar entered the Construct and glanced towards the Chair (the Chair was an interesting affair in each Construct, yet this Construct, unlike others, actually contained a Chair which was – reputedly – an actual chair (and not a log, or an unconformity in the wall, or any odd manner of things which can be sat on). Hazarding a guess at the name of the militiaman who occupied the Chair, Regnar greeted Balthazar, and sat down on the floor. It was the first time that he had legitimately been inside of a Construct (being the rogue child/teen every other time he had visited one), and it was soon to be the first time he had legitimately left one. There was only one Chair in each Construct, and this was because there was only ever one out of two militia on break at each gate (except during rush hour, as more men were needed on duty during this time). This time, instead of leaving the Construct by his ear/arm/wrist/ankle being pulled, Regnar had the privilege of, for the first time, being asked to check the gate.

This inferred a four-hour “check”, and by the time that four hours were up, Regnar was ready to go to the Chair until Dawn. Which is what he did (since Balthazar did not wake him for the fourth shift).

“What?” came a voice, enveloping the darkness, and squishing it, until it exploded into the normal night time sounds of the city. Juan came-to, and found that Balthazar was arguing with some citizens at the gate. They were standing outside of the gate, and sounded anxious to get in.

“Just open the gate Balthazar,” Regnar heard John speak. Interested in the arrival of John’s scouting party, Juan opened his eyes and peered outside of the Construct. “We’re sorta inna hurry,” pleaded another man.

“I... You can’t expect me to let,” argued Balthazar, but lowered his tone and began working on the gate mechanism to make the gate open. “You can’t expect me to let you bring kidnapped people inside Rascaline – you are going to get in trouble,” he continued.

“Look, it’s not a person, see? He’s an Elf spy!” rationed John, to an exclamation of surprise from John and Regnar.

“A what?” intoned Regnar, now fully-awake.

“An Elf,” affirmed John, “we caught him lurking just outside the city. He was dangerous, but now we’re safe since he’s unconscious. We’re taking him to Baba.”

“We are..?” questioned Boromir, “Isn’t she asleep?” he rationed, reminding everyone of how late (or – since it was morning – how early) it was. John did not respond, but he urged everyone through the gate, and beckoned for John to close the gate. They carried an unconscious man – or maybe an Elf – through the gate with them. He was draped over the shoulders of the man with the high-pitched voice of them, who was not even staggering under the weight. Regnar thought he saw some drool coming out of the Elf’s mouth, but it could have been the reflective fabric of its clothing catching the light. There was not ample light, so Regnar tried lighting the lantern that lay inside the Construct. There lay the Elf! It had pretty blonde hair, and looked rather graceful lying unconscious. As if it had been too lazy to stay awake, and had nonchalantly drifted off into slumber – choosing to fall asleep on somebody else’s shoulders only by mere coincidence, and that it had not been kidnapped by John’s scouting party. Balthazar interrupted Regnar’s musings with an order:

“Don’t leave the gate, kay? You can go after them in the morning.” ended Balthazar, evidently thinking of following John, and guessing – correctly – that Regnar wanted to do the same.

[Phenoca]

~9~

“Juan, wake-up!” came a shout from the entrance to the hovel. I rose to my elbows, and then propped myself upon my wrist, rolling to kick my blankets off of my feet. Setting the feet onto the carpeted rug beside my bed, I shifted forward, and spoke,

“Welcome home, Reg. How did it go last night?” to which the exuberant reply was, “You wouldn’t believe what we saw! I can’t believe it! You have to see him,” Regnar spoke rapidly, leaving me no time to think and consider his words. Approximately five minutes later, as we left via the front-entrance, I recalled those words to mind as I followed Reg out of the door, and shut it behind me and the latch (more for keeping the door shut against the wind than for security) clicked into place.

“Him?” I questioned, pinpointing the oddity of Regnar’s excitement.

“Uh...” Regnar finally lapsed into silence. Apparently he had had so much fun as a guard during the night, that now that it was daytime, and he had not gotten enough sleep, he could not recall what had happened! I prompted him by stepping-up the pace at which we walked towards Baba’s hovel.

“I don’t know Juan. There was this Elf, and he had big ears.” muttered Regnar as we walked, I was so amused by his tone, that I scoffed at his remark, and told him, “And you would not believe what happened last night to me either – I grew these remarkably large ears, and they were so large, that I could hear Baba snoring in her bed!” at which we laughed, because Baba was a very respected figure in the community, since she was the wife of the most powerful Elite in Rascaline... Who was now dead. For a widow, she still wielded an incredible amount of respect. I now regret making the joke, but nobody heard, so it was ok. The humour lay in the fact that Baba’s house was almost a half-kilometre away from where I live.

“But seriously – we caught an Elf.” said Regnar. I didn’t know what to say. I was dumbstruck. Out of my dumbness (dumb as in not being able to speak), I said the first thing that jumped unexpectedly into my mind, “are they feeding it?”

“Yeah.” replied Regnar. We both fell silent as we fell to considering how humans treated Elves. But then, it was an Elf. “How big is he?” I asked, actually referring to the Elf by its gender, not out of respect, but by accident.

“As big as anyone, come-on - I want to see it wake-up!” said Regnar as he hurried towards Baba’s hovel, which was now visible, rising above the other hovels by meters. Baba’s hovel was the tallest residential building around, but I took it for-granted as we sprinted to the front door, and knocked. Puffing, as I was out of breath, I swallowed the air in large gulps, and glanced at Regnar, who was visibly not out of breath. He was not even moving his shoulders as he stood patiently at the door, waiting to see who would answer it.