People being ugly to each other just because they can and creating an environment in which you are not permitted to think or feel differently from the mainstream.

Because that’s the environment you need for popular acceptance of stripping away someone else’s rights… because they aren’t like you, they are different. They are other.

Look, I’m not blind. I was born with a cleft lip and pallet and had to have a handful of surgeries before it was okay for me to go to school and not scare other kids. My earliest memory is being with my mom in the local supermarket and having a woman ask my mom if I was retarded, too. I know my face is objectively unattractive. That’s the lot I drew, and the people that take the time to get to know me are usually kind.

Because I don’t agree with name calling, this is what I have.. someone going through every post I’ve ever made to remind me I’m ugly and stupid.

Thanks. And, yall, welcome to America Made Great.

Cool light filtered through the leafy, sweet smelling canopy that gave shade to the Queen’s enchanted bower. No two souls that entered it could agree on what it looked like; most agreed that time spent there was as a dream, with details that faded as soon as one left its embrace.

Whenever Titania noted a visitor trying to fix the furnishings in their minds, she smiled to herself. 

No sense in telling them that the brilliantly violent violet blooms overhanging the boundaries were from a world that had drawn its last breath a thousand uncountable generations ago that had no name. That the rugs and statuary were the finest works of art ever created by genius long gone to dust.

Here, all of the beauty and wonder remained, alongside a thousand bits of flora and fauna, would go on and on. 

Even as did Titania herself. Forward, ever forward, and she grimaced at the bitterness that yet lingered.

Just now that soft light illuminated the small basin of water that served as a refreshing pool to the right hand of the throne. A trickle of water seeping from cold granite kept the natural grotto filled with the clearest water seen by mortal eyes. It could be a soothing counterpoint, or completely silent; like all else in this place, it served the will of the queen.

Two slender, graceful fingers caressed the surface of the water, the forefinger clockwise, then the middle finger counter clockwise. Titania’s gaze was not upon the supplicant at all, but on the ripples that spread from her actions. So many choices to be made, each one with the potential to echo down through generations, centuries, even eons.

As the ripples overlapped each other, each battering against the energy of its counterpart, Titania’s gaze shifted to the wolfkin. She was in her natural form, a lovely elven lass who’s pale blond beauty was well illuminated by the moonlight streaming down and spilling onto the wonders forgotten over eons. Her silvery gilted head was appropriately bowed as she waited, oh so still, so silent, and most of all, so patiently for the wisdom of the queen.

At her left hand, the enormous grey squirrel who served as her seneschal twitched his whiskers precisely once from his perch on the arm of the enormous block of black marble that served as the wide bench of Titania’s throne.

“We are sure that the squabbles to the far north are no concern of ours,” Titania’s voice was pitched low, rich as honey, dark as night. She artfully brushed a twitching tendril of silver hair over her ear, where it continued on its sinuous path to the feet of Scamper. He stepped on to the strand only after genuflecting to his queen for her kindness, then rode it down to the young wolf girl. Reaching out a paw, he drew the girl to her feet (as regally as only a foot and a half tall squirrel could be) as he knew his queen wished.

Titania gave him a small nod of appreciation before continuing on. “We do not choose to take up the standard of the wolfkin,” and she paused to allow the girl a moment to compose herself. “We make no judgment as to the right of your cause, even as our brethren Erdu and Danu will likewise absent themselves from this conflict.” Here the queen glanced at Scamper, who twitched the same whisker as before.

They both noted the supplicant’s quick intake of breath before she lowered her head once more- she had not been aware that her companions’ missions would be nearly as fruitless as her own. It made no matter; there was no action she could take in the meager time that rendered this rare gift of foreknowledge useless, and Titania’s lips curved ever so slightly as she watched that realization dawn.

“However,” the queen went on, a bit more briskly. “We also have had no missive from Naradhurn in this troubled time to call for aid of his old ally. How concerning it is to know naught of what has befallen our friends, and yet.” Titania stared at the girl’s bowed head, drawing out the pause until the child looked up. She knew it was disconcerting for some to meet her gaze, yet Titania did not wish to be misunderstood with what she was and was not committing to. 

It took another nudge from Scamper before the wolfkin looked up, startled.

If looking upon the Queen’s bower was like a dream, to look upon the goddess herself was delirium. Never was anyone so still and so ever changing- her eyes moved as did waves upon the sea, brimming with too many emotions to name. In stark contrast, her form was eerily at peace, long slender limbs that composed themselves to unearthly grace. 

Only did her hair seem unrestrained, with dozens of colors playing against one another, tendrils and tentacles, strands and locks aflow with life all their own. As with most folk who were granted a private audience, the girl didn’t seem to know where to look once permitted to raise her eyes and ended up trying to watch all the queen at once.

After a patiently pregnant pause, “The weather in the north is so very terrible this year, we have heard. How unfortunate that messengers to the south are so seldom seen.” The kaleidoscopic eyes narrowed, finding and meeting the wolf girl’s for the first time. “For one cannot respond to a message one has not received.”

The girl bowed again, her forehead pressed to the mossy floor. “I hear the words of the Queen of the South, and appreciate each as a pearl to be held and treasured.”

Titania laughed, a startling sound that found musicality within the rust of disuse. “Ah, my lass, should there be more such as you that wish to come to our service, pray send them. We should be pleased to receive others of quick tongues and quicker wit.” The queen returned to contemplation of her scrying pool, an ethereally gentle curve to her smile that caused the messenger’s breath to catch in her throat.

Dismissed, the girl backed away as court protocol dictated, but the queen paid her no mind. “And more ripples against the ripples are set into motion,” she murmured. This time, she let the waters carry her where they would, and saw the bitter cold fighting. Red blood steamed against the churned snow and mud, and the end would be a stalemate. The girl she had just dismissed would live, one of her companions would not. But forward, ever forward would they all go.

Scamper, having shown the girl to the winding exit path, came back to his perch. He cheekily caught up one of the ever moving tresses to rub his face against in homage. “You approve, then?”

“My fairest lady, I do. As the twins hold their silence, it is only meet that you follow their lead.” He laid one of his furry fingers alongside his nose, dark eyes glittering for all that he dare not put into words, even in as safe a place as this.

It brought another, cooler smile to her pale lips as she raised a finger to rub him behind the ear. “Have you word of Puck’s return?” While she enjoyed the company of her furry confidante, Scamper wasn’t the same as the attentions of her consort.

“Three days by the road, dearest mistress. It was a profitable search by all accounts; two lost ones to join your household.”

“Two? Have we the space for them?” It was a shocking number- some decades could go by between foundlings, to have two from the same quest was most unusual.

“We do, with Angin having left on his quest a fortnight ago and Mellina awaiting only your blessing that she may depart.”

Titania brought the child to mind easily enough, a dark rangy girl who had received the gift of height without the flesh so that she looked crude and unfinished. Her desire was to find knowledge of healing that she might commit it to written word and available to all peoples. “One is displeased by this. Knowledge is one thing, her thoughts of late stray from trust in the goodness of the gods to offer compassion where it is needed. I do not like these doubts being put forth so vocally. We care of our people and we always will.”

Scamper gave his queen a deep, reverent bow, bringing the hem of her robe to his lips. “As you always have, dearest queen.”

“Yes,” Titania’s voice trailed off and she shook her head, reaching down to pat Scamper on the head and moving on with a brisk tone. “You have learned well as my left hand, my lord Scamper. Take a boon for yourself, and know that I am pleased with you.”

“And Mellina?” The squirrel asked after a deep genuflection.

The loving stroking down the squirrel’s spine stopped abruptly, and a sudden chill draft fluttered the branches overhead. 

“You may dismiss her, that she seek her fortunes elsewhere. This dream is not shared, therefore we have no blessings to offer.”

“As the mistress of air and darkness wishes,” Scamper bowed again before living up to his name and removing himself from her presence that her will be obeyed.

 Without the seneschal to stroke, the long tapering white fingers stroked the marble armrest instead. An oversized bench that was emptier without Puck beside her. In recent years, the news of foundlings had come more and more frequently. As it was her own prophetic vision that had told her that dreamers required her guidance, and it was imperative that each one be sought out. Her dearest Puck had taken up the task with a will, for only he could see as she did which ones could be left to live our their little lives where they were, of no concern to anyone, really.

But a few.

A very small few had both the natural abilities granted to them by the virtue of being born Myskarian along with the curious turn of mind or perhaps it was spirit- that created a hero.

“We have no quarrel with heroes,” Titania murmured, almost as though she spoke to herself. “Fine folk they are, with wondrous tales to enjoy on a winter’s night.”

She paused, ear cocked to the winds before rising and gliding across the soft rugs spread over the mossy floor of the audience chamber to her private couch. Drawing back the antechamber’s diaphanous draperies with a thought, the queen lay herself down upon the fantastically carved couch and closed her eyes, nodding along with a conversation only she heard.

“Precisely. And now, mayhap, we dream.”

And, as she had willed it, they did come, showing her more of the day than she’d been able to glimpse in that quick flash from the scrying pool. Details of the other wolfkin emissaries that would be turned away from gods they would come to the conclusion were uncaring, indifferent to the suffering of their people. Oh, how bitter they would be, sent forth as failures, their pleas unheard, their cause unknown.

It would take time, all things did. 

As happened too frequently, the sight shifted away from what Titania wished to know to the darkened mirrors that refused to serve. She shook her head upon the silken pillow in annoyance, her hair fanning out into wild gyrations as though troubled by the turbulent thoughts roiling within. With a frustrated sigh, the queen sat upright, shaking her head and drawing her hands into the forms of banishment and negation that the vision be pent once more.

To aid her, the queen placed the soles of her bare feet upon the damp earth, feeling the immediate relief of the power of the leyline. It tossed and surged beneath her, full of raw magic that beckoned her to temptation and folly. Titania crooned to it soothingly, stroking the air before her, singing airs that could calm far more violent tempests than this. Another balance, another careful step of the dance, more and more patience to be called upon. So many times, the call had been too powerful to resist.

This time would be different. Time was moving forward, and Titania, Queen of the South, Goddess of Magic and Ether and Wonder guided those that came to her as only she could. She curled her bare toes into the soft warmth of the earth to feel the thrumming while stretching her hands to the sky, as though to wrap her arms around the whole of the world.

Patience was the hardest lesson to learn, yet she would keep moving forward.

“It’s not fair, Scamper. You know it’s not!” Mellina was engaged in angrily wadding up a glorious array of clothing; such was considered necessities for a life spent attending the queen. She stalked around the room, snatching items and wringing them in her hands before shoving them into a leather sack, and Scamper winced at each circuit. Before she could ruin any of the truly valuable articles, Scamper took control of the situation, shooing her away and carefully shaking the garments seemingly of moonbeams and silk.

“Does fair have so much to do with life in the wilds, mistress? Where is this fairness you speak of that I am here, folding your clothing for you that you may travel securely with mementos to treasure for your time whilst my wild kin scurry to store nuts and fear the owls?” The seneschal’s voice remained even and calm, and when Mellina turned to stare at him, only the stiffness of his back and the cant of his whiskers betrayed any emotion but compliance.

She sank to the forest floor gracelessly, flopping into a heap of long limbs in a way that made the particular squirrel raise an eyebrow at her. After a moment of silence that indicated Scamper had said all he intended to, Mellina sighed and started helping to pack properly. “I’m sorry, truly, I never thought of what it has to be like for you to be Chosen.”

Not looking up from his task, the squirrel gave a slight shrug. “Nothing I didn’t sign up for, to be sure, and don’t fret yourself over me, love.” He flung his little arms out to show off the tiny vest embroidered with tiny slivered moons in silver and stars of semiprecious stones. “It’s not as though I’m dressed in rags and fed table scraps.” His bright dark eyes caught Mellina’s and he walked over, laying a paw against her face. “You’re a good child, Mellina, and your dream is a worthy one. There’s no fault to any that the queen does not share it; there are many that come and stay for a time only to wander onwards. I wish you wouldn’t take it so ill- I would like to remember our parting fondly, and hope that someday you may wander back to see an old squirrel. Maybe even remember him as kindly as he will remember you.”

Mellina, as she had always wanted to but never quite dared, picked Scamper up and cuddled him close, her tears falling into his fur. “You’re a good friend, Scamper, and helped me so many ways to be more comfortable during my time here. I’m glad to have been able to know you.” 

In his turn, Scamper drew away, patting her hair gently, head cocked with a smile. “And so it is that I feel the same way, my dear.” He drew out his miniscule handkerchief and started mopping up her tears, first from her face, then from himself with quick, darting motions that spoke to a fastidious nature. “Fairness was never part of the equation for either of us, but I also want to remind you that there are other places you may go.” He glanced meaningfully to the northwest.

“The city. With all the peoples, all the chaos.” Mellina’s long, elegant nose wrinkled, and she turned to look out from her little glade. Beyond the sweet smelling flowered vines that served as her curtain, the silvery elms and golden beeches stood, branches framing the sky, swaying in elegance. From another alcove much like her own, soft whispers of song emerged, complimenting the sighs of the breeze that came and went on cue. To consider leaving this place of order and calm contemplation was wrenching enough, the idea of stepping into a whole new world such as that was more than a little daunting.

“Tcha!” Scamper said, tugging a log of her hair. “So rarefied as you have become! Your home was not so very different, in its time.”

“Time!” Mellina said in sudden alarm, her dark eyes shooting to the sky has her hands searched her face. “How long as it been that I have tarried here?”

The squirrel gulped, thinking to himself that this was the truly difficult part for their visitors to accept. The queen did not accept change around here gracefully; and so it was that any that came to her service agreed to remain at her pleasure in this little land of enchantments and beguilement. In return, members of the queen’s court were given leave to learn all manner of crafts, magics, and skills within their affinities, all without aging as much as a single day. 

Most of the longer lived races accepted this as a matter of course, without undue fuss. What’s a hundred years spent studying with the goddess of magic herself against a span of a thousand years they could expect to live, if they were cautious?

Mellina, however, was a human, with all of the violent emotions of that group of short, bright lived sparks. When the queen was in a more talkative mood, Scamper had heard her speak of humans in a tone of mild annoyance. “They are constantly darting from idea to idea, unsettled and unsettling creatures; I wish Puck would bring fewer of them. Their incessant wants and yearnings are exhausting- no wonder Erdu and Danu spend so much time in renewal.”

Still, a question was a question, and Scamper had avoided it as long as he could by knotting the laces of the girl’s bag. “You have served for just over a hundred years, child.” He raised a paw at her as he saw her mouth shoot open. “One hundred years, one month, one week, and one day, if you must be precise about it.”

The dark skinned girl sank bonelessly down to the forest floor. “Everyone I ever knew is gone.” She lowered her head into her hands, her mind reeling. It had seemed so simple to accept at the beginning, bedazzled as one was to be asked to be a part of this shining paradise that called to so few. A cold pit began to grow within her stomach as the enormity of all she had lost… one hundred years, a month, a week, and a day!

Scamper scoffed, knowing from experience that this despair had to be dispersed with delicacy. “Hardly! Certainly, the humans from your village, yes. But those you served with, they are still seeking out their truths. In fact, you might seek out the Grey Dragon Inn at the main crossroads to the north, I understand it’s quite the spot for our graduates to gather and share the lore they’ve learned.”

Lifting her head, Melinna sniffled and scrubbed her hands over her face. “I could… ride up there, talk to the others, and get a lay of the land. See what the next best step is.”

The squirrel gave her an approving nod and a pat. “That’s exactly what you ought to do, love. And if what I’m hearing is correct, you may happen across Puck there.”

“Oh! How it would have torn at me to have not said goodbye to him, too. He’s been such a great friend, even as you have, Scamper.” 

So it was that Mellina’s exit was at great speed and no fuss out of the ordinary, just as the queen preferred it.

For his promised boon, Lord Scamper, Seneschal to Queen Titania took himself off to the single black oak tree that stood within the great audience hall. He, well, even he had to admit it, scampered up the vast trunk higher, and then higher still to the small burrow he had magicked all for himself. It was only there, in his armchair by the fire, divested of his finery and with a tiny dram of good halfing made wine in his paw that he heaved a sigh of relief.

It had been a tricky eviction, to be sure, but Puck’s name worked magic beyond any of Scamper’s paws. It had used to irk him, truly, it was still as itchy a thought as a flea within one’s ear, that Puck was so beloved of all. Of the queen herself, it was understandable, he was her Prince Consort, after all. Even though he flitted off and about into the world all while Scamper himself remained behind and handled all of the matters of the realm.

Swirling his wine meditatively, Scamper wished for the thousandth time that Puck would one day go and stay gone, that he himself be more appreciated for all he did. When he remembered the obnoxious little ditty Puck had written about him, Scamper felt his ears grow warm. As a satire it was no crueler than most, but it had been written in a less refined time, when humor was somewhat cruder. The queen herself had asked Puck to lay the tune aside, but every now and again, Scamper still heard it. He was convinced Puck taught it to any new servitor that could carry a tune as he ushered them to court.

Rubbing the back of his neck and ears with both paws, Scamper sighed and finished off the wine with a haste that would have been unseemingly in company. If he had learned anything at all in his time of service, Scamper had learned that all things were in motion at all times, and that opportunities arose with enough patience and cleverness to seize them.

High in the tree, listening only to the music of the breeze in the branches, Scamper dreamed as did his mistress.

They called him Mouse, the odd one out in a large, boisterous family of innkeepers who never seemed to have much to say. Always quiet, always tucked away in some out of the way spot. This week under one the dark table in the corner where any number of not quite legal dealings could be taking place. The next week, it may be one of the great casks in the pantry, emptied by a particularly busy festival days. Always watching, with dark eyes that saw all.

As she had with the five boys that came before him, when finding him underfoot, Mistress Mirda wasted no time in finding some task to occupy him. “Children without work will find mischief, mark my words,” she’d say as she cast eyes about the prosperous establishment. Dark haired, apple-cheeked, and plump, with a gracious air of welcome and warmth once a similarly plump purse was spied, the mistress seemingly never stopped moving. To sit at your ease in her presence seemed an affront, unless you were an admonished guest.

The inn was a large, airy place, with shutters thrown open to catch the light and to allow the tempting fragrances to waft along the breeze and snare the unwary. Mistress Mirda ran an unusual establishment; to hide the art of her cookery away in the dank stone that had been the kitchen was unthinkable. And so it was that she commanded that the oven be sat next to the bar, with one end devoted to the neverending work of creation. Whether it was vegetables being chopped for the bottomless cauldron of stew, dough being pounded before being allowed to rise for bread, or sugar being sifted to dust the tops of her cakes like errant snow, there was never room for mere patrons at Mirda’s end of the bar. In time, her befuddled husband ordered in the carpenters to build a wholly new bar across the cavernous hall for those that wished to enjoy their cups without being smacked by a wooden spoon for succumbing to the temptation of a not quite ready morsel.

The master of the house was, by all accounts, a great deal older than his bustling wife. Once, his life had been one of order and hardship as he had enlisted and served for a score and a half years. It wasn’t until the family business came to rest upon his shoulders that he returned to the Midlands and the inn that he only remembered as a young boy. Once, he may have cut a dashing figure in the rough leather and chain that was a soldiering man’s lot. Once, he may have stood tall and certain, wielding the sword that still hung above the largest hearth that all may know the master for a brave man.

Once Remy had been many things, and had had many plans for how he would spend his later years. Being the youngest son of a youngest son, it had never been his expectation to be the last of his line. In truth, even after the fearsome red plague had swept the land and he received the news, he had intended only to visit The Middle of Everywhere just long enough to sell whatever would fetch a price and retire to the Citadel.

While there was the building and goods within upon Remy’s arrival late one spring, there was no one left to pay to fetch any kind of price. So it was that the man who had been a steady soldier turned his hand to homely tasks; brewing beer, fetching wood, and washing the linens. As the weather warmed, a trickle of traffic began upon the crossroads. They bore news of the sickness from the south abating due to a cure coming from the fae Queen Titania’s court. Every peddler, bard, and wanderer coming up from the southron road carried pretty little flasks of the swirling dark liquid to be given freely to any that asked.

Jewels of the Queen, they were to be remembered as, tiny crystal bottles shaped like raindrops. It only took a drop of the precious potion would cure the afflicted, even if they were at death’s door. Magic, all said, nodding sagely as they clutched their doses close and praised the name of the Queen.

The plague had claimed over half the residents of the Midlands without rhyme or reason- one child would be stricken down while their brother showed no signs. While some recovered, it was rare, and those that had suffered from it were frequently marked with bloody pockmarks that they would wear for the rest of their days. Smaller villages to both the south and the east, even unto the borders of the elven forests had simply ceased to exist.

By his first fall back in his birthplace, Remy’s beer no longer fouled when he brewed it. His bread smelled like it should while baking, and if it had a few inedible lumps here and there, he had long known that was part of a soldier’s lot. The small kitchen garden he had found had been tended by some unknown niece or nephew’s small hands, the miniature tools still laying upon the workbench. Strangers would occasionally see the broad shouldered man with his shaggy grizzled dark hair smiling sadly over the potatoes as he washed the dirt from them before peeling, but something about his grim, weathered face stopped the questions from being asked.

And in those days, there were more than enough sad tales of survivors. No one wanted or needed to hear Remy’s.

One day, late in that first fall, Mirda came upon the inn from the western road. Her dark curls were a tangled mass beneath the kerchief meant to keep her respectable, her feet bare and bloodied from where the road turned to cobbles at the edge of town. With naught but a makeshift sack upon her back, she came to beg a crust of bread. Remy, being soft of heart to see the plight of so young a girl, gave her an entire loaf, fresh from the oven.

On such small gifts can fates be set.

For this indifferently executed loaf had more inedible chunks than usual. Now, perhaps another girl would have considered this a deterrence tactic so that beggars like herself would move along more readily and simply have left in shame. Perhaps a more stupid or prideful girl would have charged her host with unkindness.

Mirda merely broke apart the bread and nibbled the bits that she could while staring around her. There were cobwebs in the corners, one attached to the sparse broom that wanted straw. Similarly, the bar wanted scrubbing, the hearth needed the ash bucket to be filled, and the stew bubbling along warmly in the cauldron needed a few pinches from the spicing boxes.

Remy leaned against the bar, using a dirty rag to smear grease around the inside of a pewter tankard and tried to think of a comforting topic of conversation for the wayward beggar girl. “Where are you bound to, mistress?”

She spat out a rock hard chunk of the bread, feeling around her tooth with her tongue to ensure it hadn’t broken. Looking up at the kindly man with his large hands and comfortable face, she took the first of many gambles to come.

“Here, apparently. Get out of the way and let me save that poor soup before it’s completely ruined.” Sliding off the stool and refusing to wince when her feet touched the floor, she pulled the rag out of Remy’s hand, examined it closely before sniffing it. “Phew! Where’s the bloody laundry then?”

Remy indicated the wash basket, his face taking on the bemused expression it would wear for most of the rest of his days.

By evening, Mirda had set the common room to rights, though on the lower end of her standards, to be sure. Within the month, she had moved the kitchen works to the end of the bar, and by spring she was with child and they were married.

When Mouse was born, the inn had gone from a place of grim accommodations offered with a certain spare, militaristic flavor to the finest inn in town. Mirda would turn praise away, always solidly stating they did fair enough, thank you, but they were no Grey Dragon Inn. As no one from The Middle of Everything had ever visited that place that had become the stuff of legends, there wasn’t much else to say about that.

The Sword and Board Inn never lacked for guests, and as the business was built back up again, the small back garden was enlarged and tended by Remy and Mirda’s ever growing brood. Six sons and four daughters tumbled in and out of the doors, bursting with energy and bringing the assurance that life would in fact continue on. To be sure, there were few local families that had been as blessed; so much so that when it came time for the older boys to take up trades, the town masters came, hat in hand, to beg to take them as apprentices. In a few more years, suitors came to call for the girls, for to be able to take one of Mirda’s daughters to wife, one would enjoy all the benefits of Mirda’s early teachings. And all four of the girls had been blessed with their father’s tall form as well as their mother’s bustling nature and ability to see the advantages of and improve their situation. All parties considered themselves well settled.

Remy and Mirda would ponder from time to time in the dark of night who would take up the inn when they were gone. In those early days, it was almost something to laugh over- that there could be a time in which such a conversation might be even necessary was unthinkable. As the children began to become taller than their parents, the tone shifted to one of mild unease. As age settled on Remy’s once broad shoulders, it became a conversation they no longer wished to have, and anytime words began to lead down the path to it, Remy would wave a hand in dismissal and muttered, “You’ll see what’s best, Mirda. You always do.”

Usually those words made her smile with the compliment, but more and more they left a cold chill across her heart as she wondered how many more winters Remy would take up his position by the fire to tell wandering tales of his adventuresome days. Several silver hairs had found their way into her own dark curls, to be tucked most sternly beneath her ever present respectable kerchief.

Some things never really changed.

So when the boy named Mouse reached the age in which boys were apprenticed out and no masters came, there was a thought in Mirda’s mind about making an innkeep of him. But it crowded in with a thousand thousand other thoughts that pressed more closely to matters of the day- the cow’s milk was failing, the wandering bard was caught in the hayloft with Mistress Lyta’s youngest girl and must be chivvied out of town, a hole had sprung up in the tin wash tub and must be mended without delay. She did see that Mouse spent a great deal of time with his father, and when she had a moment to hope for anything for him, it was that he was learning something of their trade.

Remy, now more befuddled than ever, sometimes did not remember Mouse as his son specifically. Over the score of years since he had returned home, countless scores of small boys had danced attendance upon him that they may wheedle more stories from him, and he had called them all lad. In his way, he loved and taught them all, with a certain fondness but no real concern. Far from teaching Mouse the hard won lessons he and Mirda had discovered together, his mind wandered from his own adventures to those he’d heard over campfires of long ago.

As for Mouse himself, like most children, he learned a great deal that he probably wasn’t supposed to. He found all the places to keep himself quietly away from the maelstrom of his mother’s intentions for what chores were good for growing boys. He listened to all the talk of the inn, working out how the pieces of the world fit together. That was what he liked, to guess what would happen next. When he heard two field hands talk about how the wheat crop was failing, he knew that Mother would raise the price of beer come the fall, and the old failing cow would be slaughtered for sausage. He knew that young Lynelle, so enamoured of bards, would be sent away to the priestesses to stay for a time, then come home when a likely match had been arranged.

He could have told Mirda to prepare all the guest beds for the mighty delegation that came from the east from the Citadel to treat with the fairy queen after the second year of poor harvest. Mouse didn’t like to say her name, even in his own mind, but could not have explained why. All spoke her name in tones of deepest praise and reverence, yet Mouse heard so many things that he never saw the intention behind her deeds.

And there were so very many deeds attributed to her.

Once, the year the Mouse turned ten, her emissary came to stay at the Sword and Board. It brought all the locals to the grand common room that night, that they might hear Lord Puck sing and tell of it to their grandchildren one day.

Puck figured in any number of stories Remy told; they had met of old upon the roads from time to time, and it seemed he had been a figure giving advice or admonishment for every hero’s quest. For some time, Mouse had even wondered if any such person existed, or if he was something of a stand in character anytime someone in a tale was about to do somewhat foolish.

So when he turned up in the dooryard without gilded cherubs circling about his head, blowing silvery horns to announce his presence, Mouse took him for just another traveler.

“Take your horse, sir?” he asked politely as the wiry man dipped a length of fine white cloth in the brimming well bucket and began to wearily scrub at his face. It was long, mobile, with a mouth that seemed to have a natural smile and one side that quirked upwards.

“Very kind,” the man murmured, the tone at once strong and musical as he passed the reins over to Mouse.

“You’re a bard!” Mouse said as he led the horse to the brimming half barrel that served as the watering place for livestock. The man laughed breathlessly as he leaned against the well and scrubbed briskly at his neck and ears.

“I am, lad, when it pleases my lady. And what might your name be then?” The man smiled, and his face was transformed from the weary traveler to someone you wanted to know and share a meal with for the talk that would follow.

Like so many before and after, Mouse returned the warm smile easily. “They call me Mouse, if it please you sir.” The boy touched the brim of his flat cap, belatedly recalling his manners.

The man laughed, a free sound that spiralled up and up, lifting a chuckle out of Mouse even though he hadn’t a notion as to what he was laughing for. “And do they call you this because you scuttle, or because you watch quietly from the edges of things, my lad?”

Beaming with goodwill, Mouse shrugged. “I suppose it is a bit of both, sir.”

“Fair enough, lad. Isn’t it lovely how sharing a laugh can make strangers friends? I would like to think of you as a friend here, you know.” The man sank his head into the bucket, scrubbing the grime from his fair hair before tossing the fouled water away. Mouse passed him a bit of rough toweling from the rack that hung by the well.

“Shouldn’t friends share names?” Mouse asked, a bit surprised at his own boldness.

The man grinned at him, inclining his head as though they were duellists, and he was conceding a well scored point. “Truth, Mouse, so let us clasp hands as friends then, and you can know that I am called Puck.” He leaned down and seized Mouse’s forearm in the greeting that served as the greeting of equals.

Mouse gasped and released the traveler’s forearm hastily, in the same instant tried to make a bow. “My lord! My apologies, I didn’t mean to-“

“Nah nah, Mouse, none of that there. And please, lord me no lords, and if you would be a friend, keep that name tucked under your cap if that’s what’ll happen beyond the door.” Puck’s tipped the boy a conspiratorial wink, giving his cap a tug down over his eyes.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur for Mouse, watching as one of the realm’s legends effortlessly charmed his mother by almost but not quite flirting with her. With Remy, Puck took a different tactic, gravely clasping his arm and thanking him for his service. He insisted on regaling the tavern with what he swore was a true tale of Remy’s heroism that the man was too modest to tell that he had happened to hear at Riversend.

Mouse didn’t even know his father had ever been to Riversend. And he’d never seen his mother as a girl to be flirted with.

After paying court to his hosts as was proper, Puck turned to the guests, making it a point to pass words with everyone that stopped into the Sword and Board that night (and there seemed to be more than half the town that found an excuse to stop in for some reason). He spoke very little of himself, saying only that he traveled all the lands as a part of his business, and had seen everyone everywhere.

“But I am homeward bound now, and right glad I’ll be to put my boots up by my own hearth for a time. Not that it isn’t perfectly lovely here, really the finest inn aside from the Grey Dragon.” All looked to Mirda for her customary demurrals, but she only buried her face in her apron to hide her blushes.

Eventually, the traveler was asked for the news of the realm. “Ah, that’s dusty talking, so it is,” he said, and as though conjured, a half dozen tankards of foaming brown ale appeared upon the table. He took a deep pull of the closest one, then gave them the word of doings at the Citadel.

The mystical Moon Quarter continued to rise, impossible crystal spires wreathed with the mists of the Citadel. With the red plague fresh in memories, the Temples of Erdu and Danu were accepting all willing initiates that their numbers remain strong. Was there a temple here? Puck inquired, and shook his head ruefully when he was told it had fallen during the great sickness. Soon, he said.

To the east and south, the elvish tribe that held sway in the dark forests of Mlentha’s Folly had once again become restless since they were no longer welcome upon the Monstrous Isles. Who or what was there, anyway? No two tallies seemed to agree on this point, but there were a number of fantastic stories about sea monsters that wore crowns and suffered the inhabitants to bring it plunder and the lovliest of maidens for it’s snacking pleasure. Another account was presented for consideration that stipulated it as the place all the misbegotten creatures of the gods retired to in shame for their own ugliness, so at odds with the light and beauty of Myskaria. A third tale came forth with the idea that it was a place of demons and the dark fae that consorted with such creatures.

All turned to Puck, as he was the most travelled amongst the company, and he raised his hands, laughing. “Gentles all, it may be that all of you or none of you are correct. For all my wanderings, I’m afraid I have a marked preference for dry land; I have but once put my feet upon a boat’s deck, and heartily desire never to do so again.” He took a long pull at his fourth tankard and wiped his mouth upon his sleeve before raising it with a wink to Mirda in compliment.

“I do want to say a bit though, if I may about demons.” An uneasy murmur made its way around the common room, and Puck put his hands up in a kind of patting motion until quiet was restored. “All I’m saying is that when you hear the wise men tell the beginnings, they remind us that angels and demons are of the same stuff, that just made different choices, and when you got down to it, neither choice was really wrong. Add to it that the memories of the old life were given back, and they are pretty much just like anyone else.”

Puck picked up his fifth tankard and let the murmuring go on a bit before picking up the news. “Dwarves are being seen abroad again, so don’t be surprised if some come by with their wares for trade.”

This caused an excited buzz to go around the room, and even Remy’s eyes focused sharply on Mirda as the two exchanged a significant look across the bar. “What of the Fae Queen?” one young man asked, his eyes bright with interest.

– not the end.

So between the thoughts and events of the past few months with the high octane inspiration I just received, of course I won’t be satisfied till I get all blabby. For the folks that follow me just cause of chainmail pics or cute puppy pics, you might want to scroll.

I look around, I listen, and I see a lot of things that make me think. I see folks up in arms over the idea of increasing the minimum wage. I used to feel that way a bit myself. And then I sat down and gave it a think, and I’ll be damned if I’m not ashamed of feeling that way.

Some part of me wanted to feel better about where I was in contrast to the guy who hands me a sack of food when I’m too tired to cook. How screwed up is that? I’m dependent on that guy to eat, but for some reason it’s important that I feel like a bigger person, like my opinion counts more than his does.

You don’t define success by where you are in relations to others- I think too many of us try to do just that. If you feel good about yourself because you think you’re above someone else… well… you’re doing it wrong.

Think about it like Maslow’s Hierarchy… you have basic needs that have to be seen to… that can also translate to basics metrics to be successful as a person.

Maybe you think it’s too idealistic to say everyone deserves a job or healthcare or an education or a home or a family or a career or a community or a place where they can feel safe. Maybe that bothers you because you had to bust your ass to achieve just some of those things, and the idea of just handing them out like a package deal to people bothers you.

Think of it a different way- that everyone deserves a chance. A chance to figure out who they are and what they want, and a chance to get it. Being realistic, we live in a country where some people have a much slimmer chance than others, be it through economics, race, gender… down the line until we get to ability. What bothers me is not just that it’s not fair. It’s the fact that some of those chances are so slim that they might as well not exist.

And why? So someone who perceives themselves as higher on the American Dream food chain can feel secure in their position? That feels really lousy to me, like it feels lousy to say one class, race, gender, or economic strata should have greater access to these things than others.

But hey, these are just my thoughts, for whatever value you find in them. Just like there are a million million paths to enlightenment, I believe there’s a million times as many definitions of success.

What I don’t believe is that any of them that require someone else losing their chances can be fulfilling and true.

Free all weekend-

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far far away, I was kind of afraid to start writing again. One not great novel and a bunch of short stories that were always a little too self conscious to be really good plus having a major life plot twist had put writing way, way on my backburner.

Then, someone very dear to me who had been my Constant Reader all along nudged me along the path to pick up the pen again. He got me into NaNoWriMo, and the discipline of it really worked for me. And, let’s face it, I’d grown up a little more along the way. I took the adage ‘write the book that is missing from your shelf’, and, well, it turned into five books. They found readers and turned into audiobooks.

And it was all thanks to my Constant Reader. This time of year is for rest, and it is also for remembering. This weekend, in remembering everyone that supported me, that laughed in all the right places, I’m making that very first book free. Seriously, it’s out there, go snag a copy. If you want it in audiobook form, reach out to me and I’ll work it out.

Just know that being someone’s Constant Reader or Constant Fan gives a gift that lasts a lifetime.

So, I wrote a book and I suck at self promotion. It’s not the best book ever, but it is the best one I’ve written and I think it’s worth reading. You can read it on a Kindle or as a paperback. You can listen to it as an audiobook from Audible or iTunes. If anyone knows someone publishing by carrier pigeon, let me know I’ll give it a shot.

If you like epic fantasy, please give it a look. I appreciate folks taking the time to read even this far. Cheers.

So… I don’t think it takes Paul Revere to know that the tarrifs are coming and that right soon. Knowing that, there’s certain large purchases that we have been trying to get out of the way. Our old sectional has been a trooper keeping up with us, but it just wasn’t big enough for a Mouse. P.lus we’re super particular with the way the living room is set up (we each have a 65 inch screen mounted to opposing walls so we can face each other when we game or surf. Yeah, it’s weird, but it’s how we like it.

All of this is to explain why we replaced a 6 piece sectional with two oversized barrel chairs with ottomans. Room for us, room for pups to snug, and opened up a lot of space in our area.

Or, it will once we get BOTH of them.

You see, when I placed the order with Amazon, due to it being large freight, it had to go through a specialized carrier that they stated would set an appointment before delivering.

Days go by, there’s no one calling to set an appointment. After a week, I start calling and chatting up customer service to ask what gives. There’s no real answer, just ‘hey can you be patient and wait for the carrier to call you maybe?’

Fine. I’m a little annoyed cause, you know, four dogs, including one giant puppy that doesn’t always have her brain firing on all cylinders that have to be locked up, plus like.. yall are holding over a thousand dollars of my money and can’t be troubled to be even vaguely useful in finding out where my stuff is.

Yesterday it was Thanksgiving here in the US. Me being me, I had done all the cooking on Wednesday while Rick was working so we’d have the day off with no pressure.

Ha.

Around ten am, Rick’s phone rings. It’s the bloody carrier, telling him they are having trouble finding our house, could we lock up the dogs, move the courtyard gate, and move the car in the driveway to let them bring in our chair?

That’s right, wabbit. Only ONE chair. Rick, being an extremely perceptive and wise man, takes the delivery, puts the chair together and puts it in my spot. I start calling customer service to find out where the shitbiscuits my other chair is.

“Ma’am, I can’t help you, they are closed.” With zero irony. And yes, I did call back this morning, got the same absolute lack of anything remotely resembling help. I’m about a dozen phone calls deep now, no end in sight and I can’t even.

Adjourning to my comfy new chair that has already been thoroughly field tested by the corgi, we settle in for our morning routine and get to chatting like old settled people do.

Me- Well, at least I’m ahead of the game on the holiday stuff, cause all my shopping for you is done. I’m really looking forward to seeing your face when iit gets here.

Rick- Oh? I guess I know it isn’t my chair then.

I told him I was cancelling the order for his non chair goodies.

I lie sometimes too.

Dear and Constant Reader, I hope you are finding what feeds your soul.. yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Happy Holidays!

I don’t want to talk about everything else here, so I’m not going to. You want to hear about my angst around the current political situation, you’ll need to wait for another post.

‘The End’ books I’ve been working on are a pretty ambitious project, at least to me. This is my high epic fantasy gather ye heroes while ye may type effort, and it is proving to be just as full of magic and wonder as I wanted it to be.

To catch up the folks that are just now joining, After the End is book 1, because why the hell should I do anything normally? It is set after a massive cataclysm that robbed the eastern half of the world of much of it’s ability to use magic. It’s grim, dark, with a time gone by feel that I am pretty proud of. We also get a glimpse into life on the western side of the divide, where there’s prosperity, but at a certain cost of personal freedom. All is very regimented.. or is it? (And if you’re curious about how all that goes, feel free to hit Amazon or Audible and check it out.)

For book 2, we’re going back to Before the End and getting a glimpse into the beginning times that shaped the world. I had the damn thing done, then screwed up and went to see Fellowship of the Ring in the theatre again… which exposed some things I wasn’t happy about. The thing worked, but it didn’t soar. It wasn’t getting to my ideal vision of a classic that you keep on the shelf. So instead of releasing a book I didn’t love last year, I decided to pull it back and give myself the time and grace to get it right.

Cue the cuts… three of the character point of views I was working with didn’t please me, so they went to the cutting room floor. Two more weren’t going in a direction I liked, cue rewrites. The funny part is, probably due to the fact that I’ve structured my writing life around Nanowrimo, I’ve conditioned myself to WANT to write in the fall. In the dark, with soft jazz playing and puppies trying to steal my keyboard.

That brings us to where we are now. As of today, I’m pretty sure the core of the book that remains is clocking in around 60k words, and there’s more to go. I’m not even looking for a word count anymore- my goal is to bring this book to completion within the next one month and twenty odd days. That’s writing, that’s editing, that’s everything.

I know I *can* do this, I do. I know it can be the work I want it to be.

Just hope yall like it when it’s done.

(circa 6am)

Zoe- random chatty sounds interspersed with little baby awoo woos

Me, sitting up- I think we’re gonna have to feed them before everyone settles down

Mouse, upon hearing a word that even remotely sounds like ‘food’- bounces on the bed and begins throwing paws like Mike Tyson

Rick, sighing a mighty sigh- I think you’re right

Rick, sterling hero of the hour, rises and pads off down the hallway to feed the pups. Cue random banging noises, happy pup yips, and an extended period of time before the hero returns. I, not being a completely heinous hag, order breakfast.

Breakfast arrives, various snuggles with pups and trying to find warm spots in bed and failing, I finally get up and take a shower.

It’s perfectly, wonderfully, amazingly lava like, which I comment on to Rick as he’s going for his turn.

Me, peeking in as our hero, once again, seems to be taking an abnormally long time- it’s great isn’t it?

Rick- I’ve figured out your little scheme here.

Me, truly innocent- Oh? What’s that?

Rick- you forgot to take out the frozen food for the pups, so I had to run a bunch of hot water to thaw them. Half an hour later, plenty of lava water for the shower!

Me, jaw dropped- OMFG, I wish I was that smart… cause that’s fuckin brilliant!

Rick got his back though… I left the closet door open and Mouse stole an article of my clothing (pretty sure it was mine since it was bright purple) and booked it out the pup door. I guess I’ll find out what it was come spring.

^Look, a Mouse.

I honestly don’t think I believed that we would be here, but here we are.

There’s a thousand words and thoughts I could put down (and who knows, maybe that’s how long the post will end up being) about how wretched I feel. The misogyny is real, folks, as is the racism, and it fucking hurts. I feel less valuable than I did yesterday, less valid, less, less less. I’m afraid for people I love. I’m afraid for people I’ve never met that will suffer now.. in Ghaza and Ukraine and Taiwan and Korea. It hurts to know that over 50% of the population has had the opportunity to look at the blueprints for this presidency and all of the chaos and pain in store and… you know… voted for it anyway.

Today there’s calls to ban abortion, repeal the 19th, get rid of no fault divorce, mass deportation… all of it, all over the place. And my family? It doesn’t meet the criteria of being a valid family per Project 2025. As I was told many years ago, I don’t meet the criteria for being a woman since I gave up my uterus. And that’s exactly how I feel, like a thing. And it scares me to think of what thinghood will mean in a year. Two years. However long this goes on.

Here’s what I know… this horrible numb shock will pass. Maybe anger will follow, maybe just more sadness, I don’t know. What I’m holding on to right now are the individual people I care about, and I’m hanging on tight, cause it’s not just me that isn’t okay. In dealing with this, I’m trying hard to let go of that fear of being rejected and just being open to the people that I know are hurting. I’m drawing lines in the sand of my mind and saying, no, you don’t get to lie and create an alternate reality with your alternate facts. I’m promising myself that I will not let myself become hard and cold and cruel. I will not let them make me hate.

To paraphrase the crawler himself… They will not break me.

To close out and maintain my love of brevity, I’m going to give you words that keep going through my head today.

“You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, not look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books. You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, you shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.”

― Walt Whitman, Song of Myself