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Myron Epimetheus
Muttering to himself the little man shuffles between piles of books and stacks of scribbled notes. “Most curious indeed, and such interesting questions it raises! And the raising of interesting questions must not be taken lightly for interesting questions are the fountains of worthwhile thought. Yes, yes. And so many questions there are when the pursuing of even one such question as these would be thinking enough for a lifetime.” Snatching a dusty book from the middle of one of his piles the sage’s skeletal fingers turn to a page marked carefully some time in the past before this barbarous common language of the forums with its silly coloring of posts and use of smilies had come into being. His mutterings take on a muted and guttural aspect as he reads aloud in the ancient tongue. He stops suddenly and pauses over a particular turn of phrase caught by a nuance of verb tense. “Yes! That must be the meaning, for no other meaning could mean so strongly as this one.....” His lifeless eyes gleam in their dead sockets in joy over sudden insight that must be pursued.
“Yes, yes,” he mutters, “a thorough investigation of this and nothing less for one must be certain of his conclusions if certainty is indeed possible. And if not one must still obtain as much certitude about things as it is possible to obtain. Yes, yes. I must leave no stone unturned in this matter.”
He stops once, more muttered words verging upon powerful articulation. “Of course! And what better way to proceed than by the turning of stones into something that is useful?” His voice raises and the treehouse shakes in time to his words. There is a bursting of light as one of the spirits whose legal attention to detail delights in the fine print of transactions such as these is quick to respond to the invocation. Delight turns to bitter memory at the sight of the strangely powerful little man and a shudder runs through the spirit at the thought of how great was the price of its last dealing with the sage. The sage, however, pays no attention to the spirit and simply issues a command in an arcane tongue whose words allow only a single and unshaded meaning. Relieved to find the task so simple the spirit is quick to comply and be gone from this place.
Even as the spirit vanishes a crumbled heap of broken stone and dust appears on the tree house floor. “Foolish spirit!” the little man mutters and pauses to be sure that his invective words ring within the spirit’s mind for some time to come, “leaving the work unfinished when there is little time and so very much to be done!” Fixing his eyes on the stony remnants before him, his fingers silently trace an intricate set of gestures in the air over them. When the gestures cease he speaks but a single word and the many and scattered pieces of stone reassemble themselves into a statue. The speaking of another single word transforms the dead stone of the statue into the living form of the one known as the Possessor.
“Come, boy!” the sage insists, “this is no time for staring!” His cold fingers grip the adventurer’s wrist and the little man continues, “You must tell me what you know of things.” Seeing the confusion on the young man’s face he pauses a moment.
“But of course, it is difficult to think clearly when one is a bit cold. I myself can never seem to get warm. Here! Let me fix you something warm to drink.”
ooc: Welcome back to the ranks of the living. After a lengthy conversation with Myron whose point will not be entirely clear, the Possessor is free to be on his way.
[ 03-19-2004, 04:56 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]
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