December 21, 2010

Harpo, the first chronicler, wrote a two part story called ‘A Tale of Fiddleeebod’. Today I’ll post an excerpt from part one, ‘Orrun’. In it, a winged Prince and his faithful servant are fleeing for their lives. The faithful servant, Yones, is pictured below.

RAKATCHABAROOOOM!! Boulders bounced, tumble crash. Lightning flashed, crooked quick yellow daggers thrown from dark churning clouds. Scramble. The craggers reeled back from the falling rocks.

“Look there! That buried ’em sure,” said one of the bony creatures in a squeaky cragger voice. “The rock fall completed our task for us. Let’s go! Let’s go! We might get wet!”

“Take a broken stone! Take a broken stone to show to Darvo See. Proof that the family is wiped away,” cried another cragger, and stooped himself to pick up a few shattered shards. Dust like mist hung in the air above the massive fresh slide of skidded, plummeted, cracked boulders. Splat. Spatter. The rain began to fall.

“Back to Cloud Castle! Back!”

The call was heeded by all craggers, and they hurried on their way down the road, a road built with circular green bricks. Cobbles, really. Craggers did not like the rain. Their bodies were bony. Thin. Their faces were round. Circles. They held their spidery hands above their heads as they ran. They ran on the road to Cloud Castle City. Cloud Castle City nestled at the foot of the towering Orrun Mountain Crag. They ran on the road in Orrun Mountain Hollow. The Hollow was a bowl surrounded by peaks. The bowl and the peaks were known by a name. What name? The Realm of Orrun Mountain Crag and Hollow. The craggers hammered with fists at the gate when they reached Cloud Castle City. The gate opened, and in they went.

Back down along the road where the cragger chase had ended in rocky avalanche, the rain splash took the dust from the air. Drip and dribble. Drops seeped low in the pile of stones. Drip and dribble. Something moved.

“Gone. They are gone, my Young Lord. Follow,” a reassuring voice spoke.

“Yones, lead. I will follow,” answered a young voice, a determined voice, a sad voice.

What voices? Who voices? The reassuring voice belonged to Yones the Hollowite, a wearer of six-legged trousers, for one thing. The young determined sad voice belonged to Master Lord Fay Dot, a forest green winged Royal 8-year old, for more than one thing.

“Take me down, Yones. Take me down to my family. Take me to the orruneries. I will make my pledge,” said Fay Dot.

“Yes, my Young Lord. Down we’ll go. You shall speak with the orruneries,” said Yones, and down he went into a tunnel, leaving the protected chamber under the weight of rocks at rest. Fay Dot followed.

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