Aha, I have found it! Here is my photographe of the Pixie and the Strongman, and Oolon as well… taken after we extricated ourselves from the wreckage of their balloon, and before we fled into, er, decided to explore the caves. As I suspected, the photo is bloodied and singed… well, I should be thankful we escaped at all, and moreso with photographic evidence intact.
Again, I apologize for displaying so much old man skin… really, he’s got a lovely personality and a great fine mind, a splendid dry sense of humour… in there, underneath.*
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The Lady stands at the center of the western isle, arms raised, lightning in her eyes. Howling up into the sky, a Speirling storm is summoned.
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The Lady struts round the wee island, black leather boots up to her thigh, feather-flouncy hat pulled down low. She scans the watery horizon, and is soon rewarded with the sight of white sails in the distance. She grins, dark eyes sparkling, then skips down the hill to the dock, leaps aboard the small, raven-sailed ship moored there, and casts off.
The ship speeds directly at you, fast, fast. You scarce have time to exclaim, “Oh my” before the BOOM presses down on your ears and a hot smoking cannonball screams just over your deck, splashing, drenching you in warm saltwater.
Her grin is white and red, her laughter bright black.
Avast! Don’t yeh be knowin, today be a holiday! So’s if yeh’re goin ta be sailin me waters, yeh’ll either be celebratin wit me, or else feedin me kraken. Arrr!
Me ship is swifter’n a doubletime jig and me cannons loaded wit hot lead. I ave crushed teh skulls o’ tirty-tree men between me taes!
So’s be speakin smartly, else I punch hot smokin holes inta yehr ship an take yehr hornpipe for me own!
The Lady — characteristically behaving as a lady only in the broadest of senses — slowly draws her rapier, lowering into a fighting stance as she levels the tip even with your nose.
Speak! or dieeeee….
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I told the cannibals they shouldn’t bother with the cook pot, that I was best served raw.
Well I thought this was funny! but the cannibals did not. It would seem that a predelection for the taste of human flesh (and I do mean the inside, not the outside) does not include a gourmet’s desire for experimentation. They were completely uninterested in hearing about sashimi or Darkling tartare.
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The Lady looks out, out over the water, gaze stretching far and farther like the light back up to the sun. The trees ring this isle, gently swaying in the breeze. They listen as she muses…
I think that the seas were somehow always there, and the islands too. Were they all hidden beneath the placid waveless waves, or do we only see them now because we can reach them at last?
Having reached them, finding them uninhabited, and so close to Caledon’s shores, we claimed them. None but the seabirds and butterflies to notice. And, within minutes… friends, Caledonians, music and dancing… and the islands were quickly warmed by revelry.
Are these the lands the Vulgarian Ambassador claimed we were usurping? Are they rightly theirs?
On such a gloriously beautiful day as today, with the sun shining, the wind favourable, can we actually be bothered to worry on that?
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Perhaps you have seen the Lady standing near the water’s edge, gazing out across the placid sea. Perhaps you see her now, from a distance, carrying a bottle of thick green glass, stoppered and sealed with wax, etched with fine writing. Either seen or unseen, she pauses for a moment, whispering a soft spell or prayer as it gleams in the red-gold light of the setting sun. She takes a deep breath, swings the bottle back — then flings it in a wide arc, over the ocean, closer to the horizon and its’ intended.
Should you find it floating in the water, lift it up and inspect it, you will find it is not your name etched into the glass. Peering within, you may see a rolled parchment, but if you are so bold as to break the seal and uncork the bottle, the paper will turn into the smoke of roses and you will have nothing, nothing.
So let it pass.
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