The Portrait of Zool

Startling bright sky and furious sun made brighter by the light in her eye She sings the sensual song above sea cleaving bow that breaks the waves and catches the wind, always forward does it blow. At night the lonely oceans call a starstreams silent sight, caress her magic constellations, releasing her golden light. her heart ringing a bell-like note out across the waves where golden tresses float. From her earthen step wild flowers spring and keep the love that I am knowing I pray to calm seas reveal Where this ship is going forever quit The dark squalls we are sowing From dark night, and distant land Far off shore, seductively calling...

One of the things that kept Monty Python inspired throughout their career (don't believe me, rent their documentary "Life of Python") was the unending search for new groups to outrage. Poking people in their soft spots (pun not intended, sorta) can be educational all around.

Bad, bad humor.

It was a dark and stormy night. The place was Terra. The time was... Armageddon! Rain and wind howled over the expansive black plain. As far as the eye could see the ground moved in slow writhing motion as millions of Zoms and Skels guarded their territory. To the rear was a thick band of Lich, and the sky was thick with Vampires and the stench and groans of the Zoms. The time was right... Arcing over the hills came the oil flasks. The Nether units didn't even know they were being attacked until the flasks shattered against them and the ground, saturating everything in extremely flammable oils. Then the Red Dragons roared over the hills, hundreds of them, mighty wings spread wide. The enemy didn't even have time to turn before the sky split in a searing blast. Inferno, the ultimate offensive Eradication Magik battle spell had been released. The ground trembled, then shook, then broke apart, opening below their feet. White hot Lava fountained from the depths of Terra, incinerating to ash a million oil drenched Zoms and Skels in a single instant. Through the inferno roared the Dragons, incinerating another million in their first pass. The dark land was now a molten hell, the mountains leveled, the air crackling and sulpherous. A very beautiful victory, indeed. To be continued...

From Arch Mage, to portrait?!? How did Zool come to be in such a sorry state? Enquiring minds want to know - so read on Pennites for the (occasionally) exciting, (yawningly) fantastic and absolutely (un) true account of the fall of Zool!

I'll miss you. Do take good care, my friend.

(Ya know, oftener and oftener after I wander back to the Pen I am struck by the huge talent we have here! You guys (and gals) got the magic! :wizzie: ) Katzaniel, How can you even think of any other romance but ours? Well, we don't actually have a romance, but we should! Let me in and I'll tell you why... Yes, it is true I am a painting, so consumating our relationship wouldn't be a problem - or a solution - or anything... But what does that matter when you can gaze at my countenance (I'm all countenance, Baby! ) for as long as you live? Yes, I am flat, but that is not a detriment in a man! Indeed my two-dimensionality will lend a 'refreshing aspect' to our relationship. Certainly, it will be like no other. True, I can't cook, clean, fix things, work, hold you, or much of anything but talk, really, but on the plus side I take up no floor space (just a wall). And believe me, when the crunch is on, when you're in the middle of a ten year drought, the edge of a forest fire, the outside of the curve and the inside of a hurricane, there is nothing like a lighthearted egocentric joke to make your day. Just drop those other losers, and you'll see. Forever yours, a-morosely, -Zool

I haven't seen the movie, and don't plan to, but I have some thoughts... I agree with Tyrion that they wrote out the gods to make it more palatable to todays audience. Further, Homer is given partial writing credit, but David Benioff's (the other credited writer) only other film credit is a crime drama called '25th Hour', based on a novel which he also wrote (the only novel he ever wrote, far as I can find). That is not the background from which to fill out a screenplay with deep mythological metaphore. The other major creative force would have come from the producers, Wolfgang Peterson, Colin Wilson, and Bruce Berman. Why do the producers have input on the creation of the film? Because the producers job, simply put, is to PAY for the film. As such, they make all the major decisions about a film - if they want, and as Wolfgang Peterson filled double credit by also directing, I'm sure he wanted. Wolfgang has a resume' of impressive films as long as your arm, with assorted directing/producing credits on such films as 'The Perfect Storm', 'Bicentennical Man', 'Neverending Story', and 'Das Boot' - some stellar films, and popular films, all. Colin Wilson's movie credits include producing on 'Jurrasic Park', (and if you've read one of Michael Crichton's anti-technology novels, you've read them all), 'The Flintstones', 'Tomb Raider', 'Casper', and screewriter of a real stinker called 'Lifeforce'. Again, all very 'pop' productions (or tried to be). Bruce Berman has a list of executive producer credits to his name, invariably soulless studio efforts. The three producer credits to his name include 'Troy', the B movie 'Eight-legged Freaks', and the ho-hum sci-fi 'Red Planet'. These guys are obviously good at what they do, (as far as it goes, not to take anything away from them) but I'm sure they were leery of mishandling the whole 'gods' thing, and having the film slide into Fantasy Camp at best, unintelligibility at worst, and decided to sidestep the issue altogether. As far as it being 'their' movie, I think they were wise. Personally, looking at these guys' work, other than a couple of notable movies, I'd rather see a Charlie Chaplin film. If you want to see something with some soul, go see an early Tim Burton film, or the Coen brothers, or Federico Fellini. If you want to see modern mythological metaphore, see David Lynch's 'Mulholland Dr.'. That film will blow your mind. Another favorite of mine, in a totally different genre, is John Shanley's 'Joe Versus the Volcano', and, of course, any Fellini film. That is what film can and should be.

*Zool throws a bone to the Doctor.. * Yo! Up!? It is, indeed, good to see you too. *Hands the Doctor a Kilt Lifter and asks him to join the party.

I was murdered with an emu once, twice! (Well okay, that may be a slight exaggeration ) IMPOSTER! YO! DUDE! STOP! Say HI some more! At least check out all the cool stuff being written by our fantasmigorical (But always has room for one more) membership! Wait a minute... How do I know you are the REAL Imposter? (Heh, just couldn't help meself. ) Good to see you guy. Did wonder what happened to you. Glad all is well (or at least you aren't planning to murder anyone with kitchen utensils...( I don't have any, BTW...))

Grimmael set Zool down near the buffet, which was good as a great many people were sampling the many delights set out. Xaious came by, and Finnius too, but they were quickly swept away by the swelling tide of revelry. Everywhere was laughter, food, music... Something strange was moving Zool. He could feel it, but had trouble putting his finger on it. Magic was in the air, that was for certain. "Curse this curse! What I wouldn't give for glass of that sucker punch!" said Zool. "Grimmael, could you?" Grimmeal immediately set about searching for a magician or a painter, someone who could bridge the canvas barrier, so to speak. He came back hardly a minute later dragging a portly man in a dark tunic with a set of paints, who astonishingly quickly rendered a large glass flagon, the base, handle and lid of fine wrought silver, and filled with a liquid the same tone as the sucker punch of the crystal bowls. As the painter turned to leave, Zool leaned down to Grimmael, complimenting then complaining, "Great work, though unfortunately I don't care if it was painted by Rembrandt himself, it invariably tastes like paint," then he took a sip. Zool's eyes popped out. "WOW! That tastes... *CoOoUGH* GREAT! That man really paints a great glass of punch!" The man was already fading into the crowd, but at Zool's exclamation he turned long enough to give a small smile, a wink, and say, "Dankzegging," before disappearing toward the dance floor. Zool and Grimmael looked at each other. "Where did..." Before Zool could finish his question he was interrupted with the twin *SHPOP!*s of Minta's Happy Unbirthday balloons exploding sugary treats everywhere. Taking a fortifying slug of sucker punch, covered in whipped cream, syrup and sprinkles, and layers of the insistenly invigorating rhythms of DJ Terra Nova, Zool began to feel very good indeed. The surreal scene suddenly reminded him of the preamble to Seal's 'Future Love Paradise': But if only you could see them, You would know from their faces. There were kings and queens, Followed by princes and princesses. There were future power people, Throwing love to the loveless. Shinin' a light 'cause they wanted it seen. Well there were cries of why... Followed by cries of why not Can I... "Reach out for you if that feels good to me?" Zool finished half aloud, breaking into a quiet song that only he could hear. Then he laughed. He laughed long and hard - and took another slug from his flagon. The parties spell had him thoroughly in it's grip - and he loved it! "Grimmael!" he shouted to the ceilling. Grimmael had been looking at his master very oddly. Something was coming over him, he could tell - but just 'what' was as yet unpredictable. "Right here Zool." "C'mere." Grimmael bent close to the painting for the whispered instructions. His eyes began to get bigger and bigger as he listened...

"Precious art! Precious art! Make way!" The shout preceeded a ramshackle velocimobile propelled by an invisible source, but piloted by someone who should simply have remained unseen. Hunched and twisted, Grimmael manipulated levers and pedals to steer the rickety horseless wagon careening through the shocked and surprised line, it's hulking payload, a full sized standing portrait of Zool, Ancient and former Elder of The Pen is Mightier than the Sword, shifting and swaying dangerously in the wind, the bumps, and general (in his eyes) mis-treatment. In it's wake were random_partygoer(s)_46, 47, and 48, err, former random_partygoer(s)_46, 47, and 48. Such is the price of art. Zool, in his usual keen incompetance, was late. It was several days ago that he had discovered a most unusual sheet of paper taped to his right foot, but because he was behind it he was unable to read it, until he had remembered, while someone was present, to have that person read it for him - and only then after the person had asked if he was going to 'The Party'. "Party?" he had asked curiously, invitation taped plainly to foot, "I know nothing of any party." Skidding to a halt as the wake of tangled bodies rolled behind them, Grimmael was already lurching to the ground and unloading the huge portrait. With much effort, he marched it to Melba, as the groans of the injured and maimed arose behind him. "Glad you could make it Zool," said Melba cheerfully. "Gimme yer undies." "Oh! Yes. Good Evening Melba. Might I say you look... lovely... tonight..." Zool's voice rather trailed off as he took in her Ogress enchantment. Fortunately he was saved further embarressment by Melba herself, who having worked with Wyvern for many years had become quite adept at propriety and efficiency - for her own sanity and survival. "That's nice of you to say Zool. UNDERWEAR." "Right here," said Grimmael, reaching behind and bringing out a painting of Zool's underwear. Boxers, blue, with spinning rubber chickens. "We read the invitation," said Zool, beaming proudly for having actually prepared for something. Melba held the painting for a long moment, looking from Zool to the boxers, from Zool to the boxers. Finally she gave a resigned sigh, and said, "All right." The Zool party let their own breath out in a whoosh, and started to proceed. "Wait!" said Melba. "Grimmael..." "Oh yes! Sorry!" The disfigured and disheveled Grimmael promptly handed over a pair of his standard burlap boxers, one leg opening smaller than the other, and specially deloused and folded just for the occasion. "Thank you," said Melba. Grimmael bowed with a twisted smile, the Zool party again let their breath out in a whoosh, and they started to proceed. "Wait!" exclaimed Melba again. Everyone inhaled sharply, taking another step back. "What about rubber chicken?" "Uh, what?" said Zool, beyond even his usual confusion. "Is that not rubber chicken you have over your arm?" "Erm, yes..." "All guests must present a gift. As rubber chicken is coming with you, I must get a gift." "Wha... Does that apply to guests and their familiars?" asked Zool. "Familiar? I'm not sure what you mean by that, but my orders do not differentiate in any case. Pay up." "But but but..." began Zool, but then Melba cracked her knuckles - and casually took out a can of paint thinner from behind the valet podium. "You can't be seriou... EEEeek! Ah, rubber chicken! wake up! It's time to sing!" Many have mistaken rubber chicken for a plucked rooster, however as surely as she eats rubber bugs, she also lays rubber eggs. Now, it was time for her to be a poet... She looked up from where she lay over Zool's arm, and looked him in the eye with an unmistakable gaze - "You must be kidding." Melba, however, was not taking no for an answer, no matter how silly it was to demand haiku from a rubber chicken. If there was one thing Zool respected, it was 'The Rules' - Especially when backed up with paint thinner. "Puck-ack!" began the rubber chicken, clearing her rubber throat. "Puk-puk ack puk-ack! Puk-puk-puk ack, puk-puk-aack! Puk-ack, puk-PUK aaaaack!" The Zool party smiled broadly at Melba, a drop of sweat rolling down Zool's painted brow... Melba held them in her gaze for a long moment, looking from Zool to the rubber chicken, from Zool to the rubber chicken. Finally she gave a resigned sigh, and said, "All right." "Let's go!" said Zool, practically pulling them through the door with his odd expression of reserved haste. Keeping very quiet, Grimmael huffed up the painting and crammed it through the door. "Watch it!" shouted Zool. "Precious art, precious art!" With a final scrape and a bang, they were in. "Phew!" thought Zool, wiping depicted sweat from his brow. He had been afraid for a moment she was going to realize that Matt, his pompadour, was another familiar, and Matt was basically hermaphroditic, and wore no underwear and couldn't speak. As they trudged up the hall Zool saw one of the few remaining frogs in the path. He realized Grimmael probably wouldn't see it, burdened as he was. "Look out little green buddy," warned Zool toward the frog, "I'd sure hate to squa... Ooooh." Zool really felt for the little guy, as he knew, only too well, that it wasn't easy being flat. Ah well. Now to party!!!

Zool looks down from his portrait... and bursts into tears. "Oooooooo...zy, y, y..." *HONK!* "I'm sooo happy it's your birthday," he says after blowing his nose and wadding up the handkerchief, putting it back in his coat. You hope what appeared to be leaking out of the soaked rag was just paint... "And I remember when he was a wee lad of a mere couple millenia. How time flies! Happy B-day ya big King of Kings!" Perhaps I should hang out at the party fer a bit.

Quietly wonderful.

Ah-so!

Here is a more comprehensive source of Regel's 2-D story: http://www.quantum-metaphysics.com./essay.htm

We are all miracles. Happy Easter.

Me either. Methinks they should honor your process. (Said with a straght face)

I adored Akira.

Yeesh! So many birthdays, so little time! How can you do that to me?!? Happy B-day all!

http://www.oldcastleshop.com/discussion_outline.htm

Uhhhh.... I forget.

Aren't you forgetting something Aardy...?

I've got some great memories. I've got some that ain't so great either. I've heard it said that one must 'get over' the rough spots, and concentrate on the good, but I've come to think that the worse things aren't really something one can just 'get over', that a person is changed by these things and does go on, but with a new perspective on things. Change is the price of growth. As such, I take the bad with the good, and don't deny the bad becasue it paradoxically causes me to cherish the good all the more. Without the bad memories to give perspective, why would I value the good so much?

I ran across this on the net and simply had to share it. Enjoy... Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreathes upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira, delight of the past and hope of the future. Into the granite city of Teloth wandered the youth, vine-crowned, his yellow hair glistening with myrrh and his purple robe torn with briers of the mountain Sidrak that lies across the antique bridge of stone. The men of Teloth are dark and stern, and dwell in square houses, and with frowns they asked the stranger whence he had come and what were his name and fortune. So the youth answered: "I am Iranon, and come from Aira, a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find again. I am a singer of songs that I learned in the far city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and in hopes that I sing in gardens when the moon is tender and the west wind stirs the lotus-buds." When the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city there is no laughter or song, the stern men sometimes look to the Karthian hills in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the colour of his tattered robe, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. At evening Iranon sang, and while he sang an old man prayed and a blind man said he saw a nimbus over the singer's head. But most of the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and his hopes. "I remember the twilight, the moon, and soft songs, and the window where I was rocked to sleep. And through the window was the street where the golden lights came, and where the shadows danced on houses of marble. I remember the square of moonlight on the floor, that was not like any other light, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. And too, I remember the sun of morning bright above the many-coloured hills in summer, and the sweetness of flowers borne on the south wind that made the trees sing. "Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! How I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyline Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed though the verdant valley! In those groves and in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of the city, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. "And in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Often I played in the gardens and waded in the pools, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the open place, and look down upon Aira, the magic city of marble and beryl, splendid in a robe of golden flame. "Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate. All through seven lands have I sought thee, and some day shall I reign over thy groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing, and laugh not nor turn away. For I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira." That night the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a stable, and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him. "But I am Iranon, a singer of songs, " he said, "and have no heart for the cobbler's trade." "All in Teloth must toil," replied the archon, "for that is the law." Then said Iranon: "Wherefore do ye toil; is it not that ye may live and be happy? And if ye toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Ye toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song? And if ye suffer no singers among you, where shall be the fruits of your toil? Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. Were not death more pleasing?" But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger. "Thou art a strange youth, and I like not thy face or thy voice. The words thou speakest are blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the city by sunset. All here must serve, and song is folly." So Iranon went out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking something green, for all was of stone. On the faces of men were frowns, but by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the hills by the freshets. And the boy said to him: "Art thou not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seekest a far city in a fair land? I am Romnod, and borne of the blood of Teloth, but am not old in the ways of the granite city, and yearn daily for the warm groves and the distant lands of beauty and song. Beyond the Karthian hills lieth Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way, and thither shouldst thou go and thou wouldst sing and have men listen to thee. Let us leave the city of Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. Thou shalt shew me the ways of travel and I will attend thy songs at evening when the stars one by one bring dreams to the minds of dreamers. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira thou seekest, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changeth. Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say." And Iranon answered: "Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must seek the mountains and beyond, and I would not leave thee to pine by the sluggish Zuro. But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, or in any spot thou canst find in a day's, or a year's, or a lustrum's journey. Behold, when I was small like thee I dwelt in the valley of Narthos by the frigid Xari, where none would listen to my dreams; and I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to smiling dromedary-men in the marketplace. But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I travelled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drave me out, so that I wandered to many cities. I have seen Stethelos that is below the great cataract, and have gazed on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. I have been to thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the land of Lomar. But though I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few, and I know that welcome shall wait me only in Aira, the city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed oonai across the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly." At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to oonai the city of lutes and dancing; but in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so that they were both happy after a fashion. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. Small Romnod was now not so small, and spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the woods. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro. Then one night when the moon was full the travellers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the myriad light of Oonai. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira. The lights of Oonai were not like those of Aira; for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor by the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sleep with song. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and Romnod went down the steep slope that they might find men to whom sings and dreams would bring pleasure. And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revellers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the domes of Oonai were not golden in the sun, but grey and dismal. And the men of Oonai were pale with revelling, and dull with wine, and unlike the radient men of Aira. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Often at night Iranon sang to the revellers, but he was always as before, crowned only in the vine of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and the hyaline Nithra. In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing. It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the East, and after that the revellers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the dancers and flute-players. And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon. But though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing, and at evening told again of his dreams of Aira, the city of marble and beryl. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. And when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to love, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of Oonai the city of lutes and dancing clad only in the ragged purple in which he had come, and garlanded with fresh vines from the mountains. Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreathes upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira, delight of the past and hope of the future. So came he one night to the squallid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. To this man Iranon spoke, as to so many others: "Canst thou tell me where I may find Aira, the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline nithra and where the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees?" and the shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon, as if recalling something very far away in time, and noted each line of the stranger's face, and his golden hair, and his crown of vine-leaves. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: "O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years. I heard them in my youth from the lips of a playmate, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams, who would weave long tales about the moon and the flowers and the west wind. We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. He was comely, even as thou, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find those who would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. How often hath he sung to me of lands that never were, and things that never can be! Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the river Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone." And in the twilight, as the stars came out one by one and the moon cast on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned wiht whithered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where dreams are understood. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world. By H.P. Lovecraft, 1921