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Myron Epimetheus
It has taken the boy a long time to arrive. But the little man knows that boys are foolish and easily distracted. Especially those who style themselves adventurers. And even moreso those given to accepting the romantic lies that come so readily to the broken hearted. The boy is so distracted with his preparations that he has not realized that another had arrived before him and the little man is content to quietly observe his preparations. His desiccated lips form a satisfied and amused smile as he glances at his notes. All has followed a rather predictable course, and the time spent in exploring ancient and forgotten threads has been time well-spent indeed. Once more the little man glances toward the boy. To see one so unskilled attempting so great an enchantment would ordinarily be little more than an example of the low comedy which so often marks the actions of men. Here, however, it is a thing of melancholy for the boy is so desperate to believe that he can do such a thing, and that the way he has chosen to do so is truly an effective way.
Still, it is necessary that the truth of things be disclosed, and the finding of truth is sometimes a painful thing. This too the little man knows well. He rises and shuffles forward, his feet moving a few inches above the ground. He mutters softly as he moves, a sing song pattern of syllables in a tongue long unspoken before Ziroc had brought these forums into being. The soft fabric of his robe rustles as he moves his arm. There is a movement near the boy and then his sword, a trinket named Nightblade, appears in the hand of the little man. The blade protests that the little man is not fit to handle it, but all enchanted blades have an inflated sense of their own importance. And the little man takes no orders from what is nothing more than a toy. Once more he mutters, but this time the words are from a sterner and less melodic tongue, and the protesting of the blade and all of its powers fall dormant. “You swords are always the same,” his muttering becomes conversational. “Despite your insistence that you are unique and special, all of you are the same. Children’s toys that cry like spoiled children. Crying and whining and preening and preening and whining and crying and crying and whining and preening. Always the same and never do they change, these spoiled little toys whose egos are so great. The boy does not need you, little toy. But you have need of the boy. And so you make him believe he has need of you.” His fingers run lightly over its cutting edge and a painful emptiness fills the blade. “That,” he says, “is the feeling a toy gets once it has been outgrown. Learn it well, little sword, for soon the boy shall be outgrowing you.”
The boy will not listen to what he might tell him at this point – he has come too far and invested too much to be turned aside now. But he must try. The little man’s fingers reach out and grasp the boy’s shoulder, and the cold that passes over his body alerts him to his visitor. Small dots of light gleam outward from sunken sockets that once housed eyes as the startled boy turns. Before he can speak the little man holds Nightblade out that he might take it. “A nice little blade, this,” he says, “better than several yet not so fine as many others, but a nice little blade all the same.” The lights within the little man’s sunken sockets flare and he smiles. “I trust it is worthy of the one who carries it.” As the boy takes the blade, the little man turns and shuffles to a small boulder where he sits. “It shall not work, of course. But do what you must. I shall wait here.” Perhaps the boy shall converse with him. More likely, however, that he continues about this desperate business upon which he has founded his hopes.
[ 07-13-2006, 08:24 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]
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