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The Treehouse
Myron Epimetheus
A lie has been told. And not merely told – it has rooted itself deeply within the very fabric of those posts whose turning is the very life of these forums. Within the hollow sockets which at one time housed the little man’s eyes an intense light burns. Whatever fear had taken hold of him is quickly forgotten in the building of his indignation. “This will not do,” he intones firmly. “No, it absolutely will not do.” His movements are focused and deliberate as he gathers tools and spell components from the hundreds of jars and boxes scattered about this strangely spacious room, muttering to himself all the while of the need to end this disgraceful state of affairs.
Having found space for those things he will need within the many pockets of his robe, he pauses. He is cold and taking something warm to drink is just the thing to do when one is cold. As he prepares a mug of steaming liquid a change in the protective magics about the great diamond catches his attention. Such a shift can mean only one thing – that whatever barrier had separated the avatar of the Mage from this thread has been removed. Sipping from his mug, the little man peers intently through the haze of magics and once more he shivers. This shivering, however, is neither of chill nor of fear, but of excitement for the being of shadow has gathered his power and focused his attention upon that most unruly fellow who simply cannot seem to do anything that does not involve miserable weather conditions. The animosity between the two is so great he can almost feel it even here within this makeshift study. Each commands the full attention of the other. A rare and splendid opportunity this is! For here and now one might study each of them, and both of them .......
....... But a good scholar is a disciplined scholar, and a greater opportunity is to be found in this distraction which shall not last long. Truth has been overturned and buried someplace beneath this great lie that has written itself into the turning of posts. And this truth must be found. His mutterings change in key, and his body sways. There is a great rustling as the pages of his scribbled journals and gathered books move. The little man intones a few syllables in the lost language of the yellow forums and follows them with a few notes sounded in the rude tongue of the blue boards. He hears echoes of these sounds deep within the threads and posts of the brown forums and he falls silent. Still the pages rustle and he listens to their rustling, the rustling of posts that have been catalogued and read and classified. Again he hears it – the matching note of the echo. He smiles. Truth can never be truly lost so long as there are those who have devoted their lives to seeking it. He begins to mutter once more and the air about him shimmers, and then he is gone from this place – but not before he places a small figurine on the table near the gem. After all, a good scholar is not only disciplined, but opportunistic as well.
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