The Festival of the Bizarre is an annual event that takes place on the isle of Thaecia on Talisandre 14-20. At the end of the week long festival, the exhibits are judged and prizes are awarded. Three of the more prestigious catogories are for "Most Absurd," "Most Provocative," and "Most Unique." The winners of these categories are granted to 10,000 lumen purse. A grand prize of 100,000 lumens is awarded for "Most Bizarre."

Eulalia, a Thaecian Diarist famed for her amusing anecdotes and entertaining memoirs, makes it a point to attend the Festival and descibe it for those who are unable to do so. Clicking on the links below will take you to a description of the exhibit and an interview with the winner.

For the year 620, the following prizes were awarded:

Revenant Bugs

"Rodaunte's Revenant Bugs" proclaimed the sign outside the silkcloth pavilion. I paid my lumen and entered. Inside: the aforenamed Rodaunte, a Ferran of little grace and even less hygiene. Grabbing my elbow in an over-familiar manner, he directed my attention to a crystalline maze upon a raised platform, wherein wandered a group of several dozen caravan bugs. At a signal from Rodaunte, one of the caravan bugs (Meraud, the Ferran called him) picked up a dead leaf in its pincers and hid itself underneath. Then the bug stealthily approached another caravan bug, this one porting a morsel of food. The camouflaged bug, still maintaining its cover, attacked the food-laden bug, striking it about the legs and thorax until it dropped its food and fled. The attacker devoured the food. Then it rejoined the group after doffing its leaf disguise, where it was happily welcomed back by its unsuspecting swarmmates.

I found the whole display tedious and uninspired, and the closeness of the tent only intensified the unwashed, musky chife of the Ferran. I attempted to slip out of the tent, but was halted by his paw upon my arm.

Rodaunte: What, leaving so soon, my tall beauty? Are you not inspired by my socioentemological discoveries?

Eulalia: In a word, no. Your charges pale beside the Festival's other insect entries: they show neither the arcane wit of Tafwillow's Cryptomantic Crystalmoth, nor the elevating graces of Xan's Seven Harmonious Chirpers.

R: Ahh, but you have not witnessed their nocturnal performances yet, have you? Tonight, just for the two of us they shall put on a special show. I shall arrange for dinner and wine. After dinner we will still have a few hours before the bugs are ready, which we can use to our mutual advantage.

At this point he started stroking my hand and leering in a most unwholesome manner. Repelled beyond words, I extracted my hand from his grasp and left without a word.

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Meet Moote

The winner for the Most Provocative entry in this year's Festival of the Bizarre is Moote of Moote's Marvellous Mummers, a troupe of Thiasian entertainers. The exhibit is entitled "The Heirophant's Aaddress of 620 to the Aassembly of Monitors on the Vigorous Pursuit of Piety". I must admit I had some reservations at the thought of sitting though one more Orthodoxist harangue, but the laughter coming through the pavilion walls from an early performance told me that this would be no ordinary sermon.

The performance begins with the entrance of the Heirophant in his sacred topaz-encrusted alb accompanied by his entourage of a dozen acolytes in their usual white habits. The Heirophant ascends to the podium; the acolytes stand behind him in bland, beige row. The Heirophant then begins to speak. As he launches into the explanation for the necessity of decorum, the acolytes behind disrobe. What's this? Those shapeless habits were hiding simply the most shapely men and women, now revealed in all their glory. The acolytes then proceed to climb atop one another most immodestly to form, for lack of a better description, a wall of flesh. This tableau vivant, one recognizes after a few moments, is an exact likeness of the face of His Holiness, the Heirophant Omnus I, from his bulbous nose to the mole on his right cheek.

Now let the antics begin! The eyes of the large face move and blink as the acolytes adjust their limbs. The ears twitch and flap like a crystalmoth's wings. The mouth articulates the words of the speech as one actor (portraying Upper Lip) and one actress (touchingly taking the part of Lower Lip) engage in diverting erotic activities.

One actor, as Tongue, darts from between Upper Lip and Lower Lip to salaciously caress the Heirophant as well as front row audience members. Such was the acrobatic skill of Tongue, that I could scarce credit him to be mortal man, but imagined instead that he must be a heroicly-proportioned elemental, formed of red and blue dream essences. Near the end of the show, Tongue slithers around the stage stalking the Heirophant. After an amusing mock combat, Tongue triumphs and actor-Omnus is reeled in then devoured by his larger cousin, giant-visage-Omnus, alb and all. The rest of the exhortation is delivered with great gusto by the giant face alone. Let the theosophists draw their own portents from this!

My favorite part of the performance was the very end. The giant face concluded the oration with a passionate exhortation to strive for the pinnacles of chastity, just as Upper Lip and Lower Lip reached the zenith of their anacreontic conjunctions. Excruciatingly droll. One Zandir dandy was so amused that he fell off his bench into the aisle and was helpless in paroxysms of laughter until well after the performance had ended.

In all, one of the most amusing entries in the Festival of the Bizarre for many years. Excellent entertainment for the whole family. In fact, a number of Festivalgoers were so enchanted by it that they even attended a second performance.

Moote, the leader of the troupe and also the actor who portrayed the Heirophant, graciously consented to an interview after the day's performances.

Eulalia: An excellent performance, sir. I sincerely hope you win a prize this year.

Moote: Thank you very much. I'm delighted you enjoyed it.

E: Was the speech really based on the Heirophant's address as the title suggests? And if so, how much did you have to alter it for the performance?

M: It is the complete address, word for word, as it came from Omnus' mouth. It is literal Orthodox canon. The Heirophant should be pleased.

E: I've heard it rumored that the Heirophant was so pleased that he put up a prize of 30,000 coppers should your head at least find its way to Ammahd.

M: The unreasonable ingrate! He should be thankful: when he gave the address, less than fifty attended, and certainly no one asked to hear it a second time. I have performed the piece for over two thousand souls, and I intend to spread the word to thousands more. The Sultan of Zandu himself has invited me to Zanth that I may perform for him. This is certainly an invitation that was not tendered to the Heirophant. Nor, of a surety, would the Heirophant have accepted the invitation in the unlikely event that it had been offered! And yet I shall have the opportunity to preach Orthodoxy to the Sultan of Zandu and keep my head afterwards, a feat few have accomplished! I should be welcomed in Aaman as a hero; instead I am reviled due to the petty jealousy of an inflexible theocrat.

E: Perhaps he is distressed by the indecorous behaviour that has been admixed with his words.

M: The cavorting of naked men and women mean nothing. 'Tis just a ruse to lure in lumen-carrying customers and keep them in their seats whilst the Orthodox tracts leap from my lips to their ears and thence to their brains.

E: You seem quite strident on the ability of Orthodoxist teachings to outlast more earthly distractions. Are you an Orthodoxist yourself?

M: How odd that you should ask. Actually, I'm a Paradoxist.

E: The source of the Heirophant's enmity seems less mysterious now.

E: I noted a few similarities between your exhibit this year with Tybalt's Tanglewood Tree, As Enacted By Three Cymrilian Contortionists. Any comments?

M: I'm insulted! You would compare that bland still life with my dramaturgical tour-de-force! Unbelievable! Besides, Tybalt couldn't play a credible son for his own mother.

E: I understood that he was a student of yours.

M: Bah, an indifferent pupil with no aptitude for theatrics.

E: He learned enough to win at last year's Festival.

M: Yes, well...

E: Anyway, what will you do with the prize money if you win?

M: I shall retire to a modest villa in Zandre, where I shall endeavor to transform wealthy students into talented ones.

At this point, a performer (whom I recognized immediately as the one who took the role of Tongue) burst into Moote's tent to announce that he was needed to solve some contractual dispute among the stagehands. Moote apologized for having to leave so abruptly and bowed out. The interview ended, I happily took the opportunity to invite Tongue back to my pavilion for the rest of the evening so he could demonstrate his many skills.

Ah, the performing arts!

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Repulsive Boor

On the fourth day of the Festival, I was browsing through the merchants' stalls when my slipper strap broke. I limped over to the cobbler's tent. The Pharesian there told me he could have it repaired in just a few minutes. I chose a nearby divan to wait.

R: Eulalia, dearest, you did not keep our tryst as you promised!

I turned in my seat, appalled, hoping no acquaintances were within earshot. Not thirty feet away was Rodaunte, of Rodaunte's Revenant Bugs. He was accoutred in the pantaloons and blouse of a Zandir grandee, with the arms and legs cut off raggedly at the elbows and knees respectively to accommodate his small stature. The embroidered elbow and knee pads hung uselessly at his wrists and ankles.

R: You slipped from my tent without a word, but your eyes spoke volumes, hinting at the depths of passion I hoped to plumb.

I desperately looked toward the cobbler's tent, but he had not yet begun to work on my slipper. I glumly realized that I would not be able to escape Rodaunte without losing the slipper given to me by the Sorceress herself (yes, those slippers). I turned to the odious Ferran. A conversation soonest started is soonest over.

E: I recall making no promises for any rendezvous with you, romantic or otherwise. And I certainly do not recall offering my name for you to make such free use of.

R: Now that you mention it, I do not believe we have been formally introduced. It is long past time for that social nicety to be exercised, that we may move swiftly to more agreeable pursuits. You are Eulalia, a famous and lovely Diarist. I am Rodaunte, late of Danuvia, now a travelling showman for unusual insects.

E: My friend Thetis of Danuvia has upon occasion mentioned the name Rodaunte as one belonging to a notorious cutpurse and swagman.

R: I'm shocked at how uninformed is your Virago acquaintance! I am neither of these unkind epithets. While I made Danuvia my home I was a Materials Liberation Specialist.

E: Perhaps you could explain to me the subtle distinction between a Materials Liberation Specialist and a thief.

R: Perhaps you could explain to me the subtle distinction between a Diarist and a Nag Bird.

E: I retract the question.

R: A kiss from your sweet lips would go a long way towards restoring my crushed sensibilities.

E: Please refrain from such forwardness, lest I crush your "sensibilities," indeed.

R: As you wish. At any rate we are now formally introduced. May I offer you some refreshment? A local nectar, perhaps?

E: That sounds surprisingly tempting. I seem to recall a purveyor of excellent vintages on the far side of the Festival, by the entrance gates. As my feet are not properly soled for walking, I will wait here while you go to fetch such a beverage.

But Talisandre had scorned me yet again this afternoon. Unknown to me, a wandering refreshment vendor had strolled down the via and stood not ten feet behind me. Rodaunte simply called the fellow over and purchased a goblet of nectar for myself and some Zandir wine for himself. Alas, by the simple alchemy of passing through Rodaunte's personal musky aura, the liquid was transformed from a fine Thaecian nectar to a second-rate chakos. I barely managed to choke down a courtesy sip, then abandoned the goblet on a nearby table.

A quick glance at the cobbler's booth showed that he was preparing to work on my slipper. I changed the topic to one which, I devoutly hoped, would not return to Rodaunte's amorous inclinations.

E: So how did you discover the Revenant bug?

R: I was observing the caravan bugs during an off-training moment, when I noticed that one of the bugs, Meraud, was acting strangely. I was fascinated by his behavior. I at once noticed the similarity between his activities and those purported to be the purview of the Revenant cult, hence Meraud's cognomen.

E: So his behavior is entirely his own? None of it comes from your training?

R: His actions are entirely his own.

E: Have you found any other Revenant bugs?

R: He is unique so far, but I continue to look.

E: Why were you trying to train caravan bugs?

R: For my work as a Materials Liberation Specialist. They are very useful.

E: Really? It never occurred to me that caravan bugs were trainable.

R: Of course they are, just like every creature. Boons and banes! For the desired behavior, a boon: a grub or morsel of rotting fruit. For undesired behavior, a bane: ten lashes with a blade of grass or worse. Deal out justice swiftly and harshly and they will learn. Boons and banes, I say. And it's because of their rigorous training that they are sure to win a prize at this festival.

E: Especially since so many of your competitors seem to be suffering from curious misfortunes.

R: Curious? How so?

E: For example, Tafwillow's crystalmoth, with its wingstruts broken under mysterious circumstances, now refuses to depict cryptomantic symbols. And Xan's Seven Harmonious Chirpers are now Six, three of them with broken legs besides. Is it any wonder their once-pleasant chirping sounds more like a mournful dirge?

R: No mysteries have you posited here. Crystalmoths are notoriously high-strung and undependable. It probably injured itself in flight and sulks. And Xan's display? Mandalans are noted for their scholarly metaphysicking, not their practical skills. That House of Insect Repose he's got set up is a death trap for those poor creatures of his. It's a wonder that more weren't killed or injured in whatever architectural mishap occurred.

E: And what of Dhario's Prismatic Gemstones, now missing? The wire mesh that protected them would have kept out anything larger than an insect.

R: Your perceptions align precisely with mine on this point. In fact, I made an offer to Dhario to review his security arrangements for a modest fee. He refused, claiming my price to be exorbitant. I wonder if he now regrets his penurious ways and wishes he had taken me up on my offer.

E: I intended to point out, rather, that your trained caravan bugs, possibly led by your larcenous Revenant bug, could easily have made the theft themselves.

R: What a shocking notion! That my well-trained insects would commit such a theft without specific orders! Or do you believe that I would order my prized bugs to cross a crowded festival field where they could be crushed by a heedless heel? I'm disheartened that you think I would place my greed above the welfare of my charges.

R: Are you going to finish that nectar?

At this point the Pharesian cobbler returned with my slipper. I paid him five silver orbs and returned the slipper to its customary foot.

Thus shod, I gave Rodaunte the rest of my unfinished nectar and told him that the beverage had put me in desperate need of the Women's Pavilion of Comfort. I left the guzzling Ferran and entered the nearest such Pavilion, only to immediately sneak out the back of the tent. I quickly returned home and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening there in seclusion.

[ Top | Still More Rodaunte ]

Dinner With Kerhune

This was the simplest Festival entry I'd seen in a long time. Kerhune is a middle-aged Sindaran Archaeologist from Nanking, sensibly dressed for the balmy Thaecian median. The Synęsthetic Extremity is a flexible rod of blue iron, about two feet in length, three inches in diameter at the wide end tapering down to two inches at the narrow end. At the wide end are two protruding nubbins and four black gossamer laces. The Extremity sits on a deodar plank table upon a silkcloth cushion. For three lumens one may put on the Extremity for five minutes. During this time Kerhune recites its uses and the circumstances of its discovery. Then the next person in line gets his or her chance. The display is as simple as this. Yet the experience itself was one of the most profoundly moving ones I've ever had.

To use the Extremity, the nubbins are inserted into the nostrils and the laces are tied around the wearer's head to provide a snug fit. The effects are immediate, electric, and unlike any others. I can only describe it by metaphor. You have heard of the musical Bodor with their sound-sight that allows them to "see" sounds; the Extremity grants the user a sort of color-smell, which allows him to smell colors.

The emerald on Kerhune's earring had the exact same minty smell as the grass outside the pavilion and the tunic of the Zandir woman behind me. A whiff of mochan to my left was the shadow of an avir as it flew past. There were some things in which color-smell was less useful than the standard ocular abilities: the gold on white sign proclaiming "Kerhune's Synęsthetic Extremity" was a hopeless melange of the scent of nectar and snow lily. There were other instances in which it was more effective. For example, I could tell the colors of the next three festival pavilions (mossy green, pungent red, salty black) even though they were beyond my field of vision.

Alas, my five minutes were up and it was time to return to the ordinary world of divorced colors and scents. The experience did, however, leave me distracted for the rest of the afternoon, as everywhere I looked I would think to myself, what would that color smell like?

The evening before the Festival's last day, I had chosen to take an early supper at The Orb of the Last Rays. In the crowded restaurant lobby I encountered Kerhune, who had resigned himself for a long wait. Since we were both dining alone, and since my private table was already available, I invited him to join me at my table to share dinner, drink, and conversation.

Eulalia: Tell me about the Synęsthetic Extremity. How did you acquire it?

Kerhune: It was the culmination of a four-month expedition to the Lost Sea in Yrmania. Myself, a junior colleague, and a few dozen support crew: cook, scout, laborers, and guards. We thoroughly mapped and explored eight ships from the Fourth Millenium. All but one had been completely picked over by looters. It was on the partially looted ship, the Aquaequs, that we found the Extremity along with some clothing, a wallet filled with antique coinage, and a manual on meals for festive occasions.

E: A partially looted ship?

K: Evidently, yes. There were shards of broken crystal scattered about and one of the cupboards had been broken into. No doubt the looters had been forced to leave before they could finish ransacking the site. On the other hand, the damage could possibly have been caused by some large animal searching for food rather than by looters.

K: At any rate, we stayed there taking extensive notes of the site and the items until we were forced to call an end to the expedition on account of a company of armed Yrmanians who took umbrage at our presence.

E: So were you looking for the Synęsthetic Extremity specifically, or was there something else you were seeking?

K: Actually, my specialty of research is Pets of the Forgotten Age. According to documents whose authenticity is unimpeachable, the Magician LaMune kept house on a pleasure yacht in the area of what is now the Lost Sea. These documents also allege that he had an enchanted pet, an illusory l'latha in amberglass named Pouzel. This was the primary goal of the expedition: it would have made an excellent addition to my collection.

E: Could it have possibly remained alive after all this time?

K: It is a distinct possibility. The enchantments of the Fourth Millenium are much more durable than those of our present age. Of course, many of the ancient magics were destroyed in the Great Disaster. Perhaps in the next expedition we shall learn the truth of the matter.

E: You're planning another expedition to the Lost Sea?

K: Oh yes. With the money I've earned so far from the Synęsthetic Extremity I should be able to arrange for at least twice the number of diggers, mappers, and guards.

E: You bewilder me. The entrance fees at your pavilion were modest; certainly they could not have brought in enough lumens to supply your trek. Are you hinting that you have already won a prize here at the Festival?

K: By no means. I simply mean that I have entertained offers from one or two wealthy patrons to allow them the use of the Extremity while I am otherwise occupied. I would dearly love it should I happen to win a prize. Still, against such competition as the Heirophant's Aadress and Tafwillow's Cryptomantic Crystalmoth, such an outcome is unlikely at best.

E: Well, I'm sure you have excellent chances at a prize this year, although I'm not entirely sure what category.... You could be eligible for both Most Unique and Most Provocative.

E: Anyway, are you at liberty to divulge the names of any of your patrons?

K: Well, my first patron is a local enchanter named Thaelchoir, who intends to use the Extremity to create a series of landscapes. Primarily sunrises and sunsets, I am given to understand.

E: What a small island! Thaelchoir is cousin to me. I suspect that I shall have to spend some time with him soon. Perhaps he can find it in his heart to allow me the use of the Extremity for an evening.

E: And while we're back on the subject, do you have any theories as to its origin or purpose?

K: There was no evidence on the ship as to the owner. And the Extremity itself is without markings of any kind. At this point we can only suppose.

K: I have two hypotheses, for neither of which do I have any evidence. The first is that it is the nasal sensorium for Mordante's Blue Iron Tarkus. Although there is no record that such a thing ever existed, whether constructed by Mordante or no, consider the following. The Synęsthetic Extremity does greatly enhance the smelling capabilities of the wearer, a necessity for an autonomous Tarkus. Furthermore, the Extremity is constructed of blue iron, the lightest of durable metals, another requirement for a Tarkus, a creature built for speed.

E: A theory with intriguing potential. What is your second hypothesis?

K: It is a somewhat more nebulous one, I fear. The only modern similarity to the Synęsthetic Extremity that I can think of is the Bodor. The ancients at the height of the powers created neomorphic servants with special abilities, like the Bodor. The Bodor can "see" sounds. The Extremity allows one to "smell" sights. Perhaps the Extremity was simply an experimental piece that came about during the development of sound-sight.

E: I wonder what happens when a Bodor wears the Extremity. Can he smell sounds as well as colors?

K: Did you not hear what happened then? A young Bodorian woman, a spiralhornist, attempted such a thing on the afternoon of the first day of the Festival. Upon taking her first sniff, she uttered a three-toned squeak and fell senseless to the ground. After a good hour, she regained her senses, but the whole experience was so traumatic that she could not recall any events that had taken place that day. She refused to press charges and I gratefully refunded her money. She and her troupe then passed the word to the other Bodor at the Festival to avoid the Extremity. I fear that further experimentation along these lines will have to wait for someone far less scrupulous than I.

Here our dinners arrived: steamed rock urchin with honeyed blossoms, seasonal greens with light dusting of erd cheese, and nectar of a most excellent vintage. The conversation then moved to lighter topics as most of our attention was redirected, and not unjustifiedly so, to our very tasty repast.

In closing this account, I am happy to relate that on the very next day, Kerhune's Synęsthetic Extremity was awarded the grand prize for Most Bizarre. I didn't get a chance to talk to him after the awards ceremony, so in the event that he is reading these passages now, I heartily congratulate him in his well-deserved moment of triumphed and wish him the best of luck in his further endeavors.

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Rodaunte Blathers

On the final morning of the Festival, we were disturbed by a commotion from the tent containing Rodaunte's Revenant Bugs. We rushed to the tent to find Rodaunte tied up with fine threads and drugged into a stupor. He was wearing the silken pajamas of a Durne Earth Mother (apparently unaware of their significance), so had apparently been attacked in his sleep. The insects were nowhere to be seen. The guards were fetched and Rodaunte was cut loose and given large mugs of mochan until he gained some semblance of coherence.

He claimed that he had been attacked in his sleep by mysterious assailants, and had killed two before being overcome. He said that the thieves then took everything he had, including his prized insects. Casual inquiry at the port, however, revealed that the insects, far from being stolen property themselves, had in fact booked passage on their own, on a Gao Din trader ship, and paid for it with two of Dhario's stolen Prismatic Gemstones, and had already set sail!

The Thaecian Moral Guardians put Rodaunte to diligent questioning until the whole story came tumbling out: Meraud the Revenant Bug was not a Revenant Bug, there was no such thing as a Revenant Bug, Meraud made it up, Meraud was Rodaunte's cousin who was recently transformed into a caravan bug by the Danuvian enchantress Afiya while plying his trade of Materials Liberation Specialist in her boudoir, that even though he was a caravan bug he could still speak Talislan, that entering the Festival was all Meraud's idea, that Meraud was the one who masterminded the theft of Dhario's Prismatic Gemstones, that he (Rodaunte) had argued against harming Tafwillow's crystalmoth, that he had sternly refused to participate in the attack on the chirpers, and that he and Meraud had gotten into an argument about the division of the booty and that he had only wanted a share that truly reflected his "intangible leadership contributions," and when they could not reach an agreement, Meraud had fired poisoned darts at him rendering him senseless, and that justice should be swiftly launched upon the untrustworthy Meraud and should be lenient and merciful to an otherwise upstanding Ferran who had only been "helpful and cooperative during my visit on your wonderful island of Thaecia."

The judges found the whole situation so ludicrous and preposterous that they felt obliged to award Rodaunte himself the 10,000 lumen prize for Most Absurd. An exemplary performance piece in the ridiculous, they called it. I will not deign to report what I call it: the judges may be whimsical at times, but they can also turn waspish when crossed. In addition to his prize winnings, however, he was fined 8000 lumens to offset Dhario's loss, 1000 lumens for legal fees, 800 lumens for injuries sustained by the chirpers, and another 400 lumens for injuries sustained by the crystalmoth, leaving him still owing 200 lumens. After his possessions were liquidated (the pavilion, the soiled silken pajamas, a scroll of Jhangaran erotica), Rodaunte was left with 8 lumens. He was then told never to set foot on Thaecia again upon pain of death and was deported on the next ship out of Thaecia -- an Aamanian ore hauler.

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Syla's Story

The winner for the Most Unique entry in this year's Festival of the Bizarre is Syla, a hauntingly beautiful Dhuna from the Werewoods, near the Mushroom Forest. The exhibit is entitled "Exomorph: The Uxoromancing". It consists of a somnolent exomorph, bound in chains. As one nears the torpid beast, it becomes clear that there is something very different about this exomorph. Instead of blending in with its surroundings, it reflects them: the chains, the carefully manicured lawn, the spinifax pavilion, one's self. If one looks closer, however, it does not reflect one's own face, but that of someone else. A lover or spouse, as the placard outside proclaims? Who knows? This strange, enchanted creature comes with no warranty.

I caught up Syla after she was awarded her prize.

Eulalia: Tell me about the beast.

Syla: It is a sad tale. A Dream Merchant of Phantas, one Fyorenzo, was invited to the Werewoods to trade with us. We pledged his safety on the honor of our sept. He arrived and went off with my sister to discuss terms. When they failed to return after a few hours, we went out looking. We found them, both dead, the exomorph beside them.

S: It was immediately obvious that there was something odd about the exomorph. The beast was uncharacteristically torpid. And as we approached it, we discovered that its skin reflected the faces of others! At first we were afraid that the beast had trapped the souls of the Dream Merchant and my sister within its skin. We didn't want to kill the murdering creature for fear of harming them. So we captured it.

S: We brought it back to the sept and consulted the spirits. The spirits told us that the beast had been overwhelmed by strange, magical powers and that its skin would reflect the face of one's true love as long as the beast lived.

E: Do you have any idea how that might have happened?

S, shrugging: With the bodies we found the shattered remains of the Dream Merchant's wares. There were at least three broken vials of Iridian Majesty and one of Incarnadine Nights [Rainbow Dream Essence and Red Dream Essence, respectively]. Perchance the monster accidentally consumed the essences with his grisly repast and suffered excess stimulation to his brain, thus leading to his current unnatural state. Who can tell?

E: A perplexing puzzle, indeed! So what do you plan to do with this oracular exomorph?

S: When we consulted the spirits, they also told us that Fyorenzo's soul would haunt our sept until his murderer was put to death. A Tazian limner has already purchased him for tattoo inks. When the exhibition is over, he will take possession of this murderous beast and bring him to a swift end. The prize money we are taking to Fyorenzo's family as blood money to redeem our honor. It is the least we can do.

E: What a sad tale. I hope that the Dream Merchant's soul is allowed his rest soon. On a lighter note, surely you must have had the opportunity to see the face of your true love. Whose face did you see?

Alas, at this point, a pained look came over Syla's face and she fled back to her pavilion. I was never offered another opportunity to talk with her before she and her entourage left the Thaecia for the floating isle of Phantas.

[ Top | More Syla ]

Strange Coda

While visiting the floating city of Cabal Magicus, I chanced upon two fellows who looked vaguely familiar -- not an uncommon situation in my profession. I engaged them in conversation and discovered that they were the two Dhuna huntsmen that had accompanied the Dhuna woman Syla, who had won a prize at this year's Festival of the Bizarre with an oracular exomorph. They told me of Syla's sad fate. Not a week ago, she had slipped from the eastern observation platform of the floating city and fallen to her death upon the rocky ground a thousand feet below. I offered my condolences and passed a few moments in respectful silence.

I had been fortunate to encounter the two men at all. They were just finishing up their travel arrangements to return to the Werewoods and, had I taken supper at the Ephemeral Gardens as I had planned, I would have missed them entirely.

While the younger huntsman, Lujus, went to secure a porter for their baggage, Dharel supplied more details.

"It was Destiny herself aligned against us," the huntsman said. "We had come here two months ago to pay blood money to the dream merchant's relatives. But alas, his only cousin, Fyorella, was away on a trading expedition to Sindar. Syla would have it no other way than that we hand over the blood money to her in person. So we waited here until last week when Fyorella returned. Syla handed over all the money we had taken in, from the Festival winnings and from the sale of that accursed beast. The very next day it was that Syla fell to her death."

I bemoaned her cruel fate. "How tragic, that just as she had concluded this grisly affair, she should perish in a freak accident. It was just an accident wasn't it? It couldn't have been a last act of vengeance by Fyorenzo's spirit, could it?"

"We gave his body a proper burial," answered Dharel, "as fine as we would have given one of our own. We dealt fairly -- generously, even -- in the manner of blood money. It would be a spiteful ghost indeed that still thirsted for revenge. But the dream merchant's murderer, the exomorph, is dead now. We have done all that Fyorenzo's spirit asked of us. It should now leave us in peace as it promised." Dharel frowned and rubbed the moon ward tattooed on his forearm.

Lujus returned with a porter already laden with their baggage. The two Dhunans made their farewells and hurried off to catch the last windferry of the day.

At loose ends and in a fey mood, I visited the Ephemeral Gardens as had been my original plan. However, the news of Syla's death must have distressed me more than I had thought. I wandered for a few hours in the Bowers of Grief until day vanished, pondering over the events of "the exomorph affair," from the death of the dream merchant and Syla's sister to the death of Syla herself. By the evening's light, though, the Bowers seemed pregnant with menace rather than sadness, so I left.

On the way back to the What The Wind Blue Inn, I decided that I needed some cheering up, so I stopped and purchased a vial of rainbow dream essence along the way. It was Iridian Majesty: Fyorenzo's brand, a morbid connection I did not make until afterwards. I returned to my room, attired myself in my pajamas, then drained the amberglass vial and drifted along the path to dreams....

Now, rainbow essence is, upon occasion, known to produce prophetic dreams. But dreams are not the same as facts. And what follows, although a truthful account of my dream, is not necessarily, in and of itself, the Truth. And yet, given the insights from the dream, I feel that it might be an injustice to keep the contents to myself.

I dreamt that I lived in the Werewoods, where I was a Dhuna witchwoman named Syla, and that I was happy. I was happy because my lover, a foreign dream merchant named Fyorenzo, would be arriving today. I picked passionflowers and wove them into my hair while I waited. When I returned to the village, they told me that the dream merchant had arrived while I was out, but had gone off with my sister. I went after them knowing what I would find, not wanting to know. I found them quickly enough, my Fyorenzo, embracing and being embraced by Caribdea, my sister; their thoughts directed only towards enflaming their own passions as my passions turned to ice.

I slipped back through the woods and said the words I could not stop: a witchy phrase of blind jealousy and pain. An exomorph answered the call and took up the challenge: the two-legged prey to bring down. I waited until I was sure the deed was done, the enormity of what I had done slowly growing on me. To be kissed of Zar is always a heavy burden.

Now I stand before a convocation of the sept as we consult the spirits. The elders say that the skin of the exomorph shows the face of one's true love, but when I look into it I see only the face of Fyorenzo. How could I love someone who betrayed me? Someone has made a terrible mistake here.

"Fyorenzo's soul will haunt our sept until his murderer is put to death," say the spirits. They all believe that the spirits refer to the exomorph. But the exomorph was just a weapon, I am the guilty one who must die to preserve the peace of the sept.

At last I am in Phantas. The blood money has been paid, but I wear Fyorenzo's love like a cloak of ice now. "Join me, my love," his spirit whispers in my ear, as I step forward and fall into the abyss of his love.

... And I awoke in the dead of night, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding wildly. Did I murder a faithless lover this very night? No, it was not me, it was Syla. Did Syla murder her errant lover and her sister four months past? No, it was not Syla, it was just a dream.

Could any of it possibly be true? I lit the lamp at my bedside and pored over the question at length. On the face of it, the question seemed absurd. I received the distressing news of Syla's death, spent the evening inhaling the ephemeral essences of sorrow, then partook of unpredictable dream essences before retiring. How could any of it be anything other than the deliria of an overtired and overwrought mind?

And yet.... The dream answers a question I had for which I can think of no other reasonable explanation. Why did it upset Syla so much when I asked her whose face she had seen in the hide of the exomorph? She saw the face of Fyorenzo there, whom she had loved even though she had killed him. Was Syla an innocent Dhuna woman who fell to her death through accident? Was she a murderess who killed and died for love? All of the principals of the affair -- Syla, Fyorenzo, Caribdea, the exomorph -- are forever mute. We can now only speculate.

I turned out the lamp and passed the rest of the night in dreamless sleep.