Sythyry's Journal

Mirrored from Sythyry.

An explanatory, apologetical essay by Vind, Alzagond, Hrone, and Invincible Fire Demon.

The authors of this essay recently engaged on a detailed socio-prosodical study of the ‘tofyof’ phenomenon in Hanija, from the vantage point of the great university in Barency. Some conclusions were reached that seemed remarkable — seemed to say important, if not crucial, things about all primes everywhere! The conclusions, while not precisely endorsed by Prof. Mump, were strongly supported by him, the methods verified in detail, and the study urged to continue.

However, upon arrival in Hanija, it was determined to be utterly wrong.

In this essay, we explain what went wrong.

The single most terrible mistake was that we did not understand the true significance of the word ‘tofyof’. Hanijan language is not quite the same as standard Ketherian. The Translating Dictionary of Gi-Shozempi the Great translates ‘tofyof’ as “registered concubine, in the special sense of Hanija”. We followed Prof. Mump and our predecessor students, who decoded this “special sense” to mean “other-species”. The decoding was based on many love-poems written to a tofyof, in which the tofyof is clearly of a different species than the writer.

There is nothing wrong with these love-poems. They are, in fact, an utterly commonplace instance of tofitude, and a quite standard piece of the poetic life of tofyof-keepers. However, they miss the point altogether, and substitute for it an utterly divergent point that, while true, is not the essense.

The true nature of tofitude will be discussed in a later essay. For the moment, the question is — how could we make this error?

Upon thinking about it at some length, the question should be — how could we do otherwise than make a thousand such errors? For the following reasons!

1. We are reading about Hanija — or a thousand other distant places — from books. In our favor, the books are actual books from the region of Hanija, or translations thereof. In this regard, socio-prosody exceeds in accuracy other disciplines, such as socio-geography, which credulously accept the most sensational traveller’s report or often-repeated story as data for statistical understanding. However, if we do not understand the books, what kind of good research can be done?
2. Hanijan often uses unitary pronouns, which do not reveal the species of the person in question. In Ketherian, one will often write “re loves rer”, to say that one Rassimel loves another. In Hanijan, one may well write “pe1 loves pe2″, (translated as “the former one loves the latter one”), using the general pronouns that can refer to any primes. In Ketherian, this would often be deliberate coyness, concealing the species of the lovers, and therefore hinting at an improper conjunction of species. In Hanijan, it has no such connotations; the ‘pe’ pronouns for primes are simply more commonly used.
3. Our books and poems are generally translated by graduate students, who are not proficient in Hanijan. This introduces certain inaccuracies. We showed our sources to native speakers. A poet describes his lover as “shingzung”, which we translate as “hooklike” and find quite enigmatic. In fact, “shingzung” means “mint-scented”, quite reasonable as she is garlanded with herbs. “Shing-zung” means “hooklike”.
4. We have many primary sources from the Hanijan region. Some significant number of these are from countries which are opposed to Hanija, or by people who are personal enemies of that city-state. Some of the most definitive information about the prevelence of transaffection in Hanija comes from polemicists who are trying to make Hanija appear as wicked and disgusting as possible. This cannot make the basis of good statistics.

5. Poetry does not provide a good statistical sample of a civilization. In our corpus of 618 poems, 38 are from a single collection, “Love Song Ding Dong”, by a single poet, written over the course of some three months, to the same tofyof. They are regarded in Hanija as exceptional poetry — but they put an unduly heavy statistical weight on one Rassimel-Orren pairing. Another 202 poems are from a compendium of love poetry to tofyofs (produced as a possible gift from a keeper’s spouse to the keeper on the occasion of getting a tofyof), which severely distorted our conclusions about romantic devotion.

   We did not realize this at first. When we analyze the poems, they are written (in translation) on large cards, and shuffled and put into piles. Several of us never even saw the original books.

6. The translation process introduces other flaws. Three poems in our corpus are, in fact, the same poem, from three different collections, translated in substantially different ways; we did not realize this until quite recently. Seven other poems were duplicated.

After a mere weeks in Hanija, we understand that remote studies are all but useless. We propose a new discipline, socio-vacationing, in which researchers visit remote sites, accumulate data there, and perform statistical analyses to understand and interpret their information. It will incorporate the methods of socio-prosody, but with greater accuracy, as the poetry will be collected with important, crucial contextual information. We expect this new discipline to give the perfect understanding of distant places that socio-prosody was thought to do.

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Extra post, and extra-long post, in thanks for extra donations!

I acquired invitations for certain students to visit with some actual Hanijans who had some actual tofyofs. The students:

1. Vind: a graduate student, out to prove that, under certain social pressures (such as those present in Hanija), transaffection can be induced in most primes.
2. Alzagonde: another graduate student, on the prowl for means to prevent transaffection.
3. Invincible Fire Demon: a junior student out for adventure.
4. Prince Rastomil: a prince, a student, a doom magnet.
5. Jyondre: not technically a student, but interested. Yerenthax begged off for some reason.

The natives:

1. Heni: A Rassimel woman, the eldest daughter of the head of the local Healer’s Guild chapter (which is how I caused this encounter to encount)
2. Zu-Sum: Heni’s wife.
3. Atuta: Heni’s tofyof.
4. Jong: Zu-Sum’s tofyof.

I first tried to have Heni’s family visit Strayway, but they would not hear of it. Heni is newly pregnant, and does not want to come into the presence of nendrai, Locador demons, foreign wizards, imposing Tempador spells, three-headed antelopes made of green glass and green copper and green emerald, or whatever else.

I tried as second to have Heni’s family meet the natives in their home. This was quietly but politely refused. A quiet chat with Zu-Sum revealed that the home was quite small — Hanijan homes often are — and quite crowded with bassinets, comforters, baskets full of diapers, soft blankets, stuffed guntries (the cloth kind), giant turnips, jugs of babywine, and all the assorted paraphernalia of impending parentry. Besides, inviting someone to one’s home is quite offensive; proper entertaining is done in an entertainment-hall. (I apologized for my initial invitation to Strayway; the apology was graciously accepted.)

So: Khi-Dini Entertainment Hall. An old and tall building, grown over with ivy and flowering myrtle. The central courtyard is a lovingly-groomed garden, centered on a pair of fountains in a precisely-irregular pond stocked with glowing golden eels. Aromatic pines and kethlef trees bent their heads over the pool, shadowing it so that the light of the eels was all the more visible. Planters around the walls poured forth still showers of winter-blooming flowers. The room that Heni had chosen had a large but screened window to the courtyard: easy to see out of, hard to see in. I presume that all the other rooms of Khi-Dini were similarly equipped.

Inside the room itself: eight huge embroidered cushions, big enough for a Rassimel to sprawl full-length if desired. Scrolls on the walls showing elegant roundletter calligraphy. (If anyone could read it, they must be quite educated, or perhaps the schools in Hanija teach it; that is the first sub-alphabet invented on the World Tree. I don’t know it myself.) A table against the wall, with a meal pre-arranged so that the entertainment could proceed uninterrupted. It was centered on a samovar of a thin aromatic broth. One could fill a bowl with fur-thin shrimp noodles, slivered herbs, slivered carrots, slivered frozen beef, slivered garlic, slivered anythings at all, and then pour boiling broth over it. And then — if one were feeling ovivorous — one could crack an egg into it, thereby cooling the broth and cooking the egg. (If one were feeling small and heat-resistant, one could skip this step.). Also, there were small spicy pancakes, and sweet dumplings, and tiny but very boring cookies, and sparkling wine, and bitter tea.

And, of course, social disasters.

Heni and her entourage were waiting in the room at noon when the students got there. This might have been politeness, or practicality, or because the students got a bit lost in the unfamiliar streets of Hanija. The Hanijans curtsied to the students, and offered them mango-berries and wine in greeting.

Prince Rastomil, highest-ranking of the Strayway contingent, performed the introductions on their side. He offered gifts of paper and perfume, as books of Hanijan etiquette suggested, and was in all ways polite and genteel, as if he had been trained in it from birth, which he had. Jyondre did not in the slightest discredit us, and Alzagonde and Invincible Fire Demon did their best to be charming and socially appropriate.

Vind all but burst into tears at the sight of Atuta. “You … you are Heni’s tofyof?”

Atuta smiled quite gently. “I do have that honor, respected foreign gentleman!”

Vind wailed, “But you — you are Rassimel!”

Atuta smiled quite gently. “I have that honor as well, respected foreign gentleman. As do you, if these unworthy eyes are correct.”

Vind moaned, “But … if you are someone’s tofyof, may you be the same species as the someone?”

Atuta nodded, “That is our custom, respected foreign gentleman. Is it different in the honored cities from which you come?”

Vind threw himself to the floor and wailed, “My thesis! My impressive, branch-shaking thesis!”

Invincible Fire Demon took Vind to the side, and administered sparkling wine and soft words until he was calmer. Jyondre attempted diplomacy, saying, “We were under the impression that a tofyof was a different-species lover, such as, if I am not mistaken, Jong is.”

Heni said, “No, no, I’m sure there’s nothing about species in the tofyof laws. Certainly they can be any species! Atuta is a proper and completely legal tofyof. So is Jong! We have been careful — we do everything nicely with the laws and the customs of Hanija. There is nothing wrong!”

Prince Rastomil curled his tail. “Oh, don’t give it a second thought! Of course there is nothing wrong — we are hardly trying to find a wrong thing here! We are students taking courses in the study of transaffection, of the love between different species. We had simply understood that that is what the word “tofyof” meant. Poor Vind had done a great deal of research based on the meaning we had, evidently, gotten quite wrong.”

Jong curtsied to Zu-Sum. “May I explain to the noble foreign prince?” Zu-Sum gave her assent with a quick smile. Jong said, “It is an honor and a privelege to be a tofyof to a good woman such as Zu-Sum or Heni. But not all tofyof-keepers are as kind and good as they are, and in more barbaric ages, they sometimes were not. So there are many laws about what can be done or cannot be done to a tofyof. I can be beaten for infidelity, but not for disobedience — I am tofyof, not a servant! I must be given gifts and monies on a specified rate for my future, and they must be placed in accounts which Zu-Sum has no commanding over. I can be divorced without my consent, as Heni cannot be, but if I am divorced I must be given certain payments as compensation. At the end of seven years I may divorce Zu-Sum if I wish…”

Zu-Sum petted Jong’s head fondly. “Actually, the divorce is automatic unless you choose to renew your tofitude. This is her second year with me, so it is too soon to think about that.”

Jong wagged her tail. “And that is what it means to be a tofyof in Hanija.”

Invincible Fire Demon curtsied. “Just to check that I understand: being a tofyof is somewhat like being a spouse? It is a relationship of love — spiritual and physical?”

Vind moaned, “Marriage is not about love in Hanija!”

Zu-Sum dipped her head. “I do not wish to disagree with the honored and learned foreign visitor, but marriage can be about love, even in Hanija. I love Hani, respectfully for any argument.”

“Do you at least love Jong too?” asked Vind in an ashen voice.

“Of course I do; she is quite a dear,” said Zu-Sum. (Back at home, these words were greatly debated. Does Zu-Sum love her tofyof the same way she loves her wife? Perhaps both are romantic love, but the different phrasing comes from the different status of the two women? Perhaps she loves her wife romantically, and her tofyof as a pleasing concubine? We are not sure, and we are not sure if we are even allowed to pose the question.)

“And, honored and learned foreign visitors, do not think that I love Atuta any less! My recent increase could hardly have been accomplished with simply my wife’s help alone — nor with the help of any Cani, no matter how beautiful and kind,” added Heni, patting her barely-swelling belly.

“Well, that sort of assistance is not unknown to us, though our customs of marriage and transaffection are rather different from yours, O honored and high-ranking Hanijans!” said Jyondre, and told about how Este has helped certain Rassimel women have children.

“But he was not their tofyof?” asked Heni. “In Hanija, only a husband or a male same-species tofyof should sire children upon one. Without that, they are adulterous and not legitimate.”

“Well, we don’t have all those options, since there’s nothing like a tofyof in central Ketheria. The children are not legitimate. We love them nonetheless!”

And the conversation moved to discuss the love, virtues, and care of (a) children, and (b) soup. The soup was quite good. The children most thoroughly in mind might be good too, but they have not been born yet, so it’s hard to tell.

Poor Vind tried his best to be good as well, but it is hard to be good when your grand thesis has just fallen to bits.

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Bonus post, and many thanks to two people who made donations! Those donations, by the way, are going towards cover art and other production costs of The Wrath of Trees, coming soon to a website near you!

Beating up the Nendrai

And first of all, I got into a horrible fight with Vae. I simply said to all concerned that I was staying aboard with Vae for the first night, but they could go examine every fleshpot and/or tofyoferie — are there tofyoferies? We have never heard of them in our primary sources — and revel as much as they wanted.

And Vae rather snapped at me. “Sythyry! Not a bit of me is here for the purpose of keeping you from the bars and brothels of Hanija! The revelry and pleasures of the city are for you, they are for you now! The going-to-them you must make, and make quickly and instantly!”

“I’m not in that much of a hurry, Vae,” I said. “I’ll stay here with you.”

“Not that will you be doing! The terrible weapons will I unleash if you try! The bears made of ice from beyond space will I construct to give you your chasing to the gates of Hanija! The vast gap will I make where you fly, so that you shall fall towards that city! The roaring-out will I roar, so that there is neither rest nor peace for aboard Strayway, but only peace inside of city walls away from me!” proclaimed Vae, looking rather monsterous with her head all burning with putrid flames, and a hundred writhing quills on her back stabbing this way and that.

“Wait, what? You’re going to battle me out of my own skyboat, Vae?” I asked. She sounded serious.

“The battling-out will I make for you! The tomorrow will I let you back in, only, and for that at noontime unless there is a hangover upon you.”

I stared at her. “Vae? What is wrong? What do you need the skyboat for tonight?”

She stomped, scoring the floorboards deep with her foreclaws like scimitars. “The wrong it is that I entangle and encumber and interfere with your joys, simply because I am a monster and I am every sort of horrible. The wrong it is that, when we come to a new city, you must play nursemaid to a nendrai made of tears, and not see it and experience it. The wrong it is that I am a thick and sticky web entangling your wings in moping, you who should fly free and with delight!”

“Vae, you are my oldest friend. Taking care of you and giving you a bit of company is both my pleasure and my duty.” And on and on like that, and not entirely false though definitely not the emphasis I put on it in my secret thoughts. (And by “secret” I mean “I don’t talk about them”. I do write about them.)

Vae was having none of it. “And what sort of a friend am I, to keep you from every bit of fun this year, as I have this last century and more?”

“You’ve missed one or two bits here and there. Like, oh, Mynthë, and even Inconnu and Arfaen lately. And, well, quite a bit else. And you haven’t even been the most annoying person to me lately — Zascalle was that!” I said. And on and on like that.

Eventually Phaniet hit me with a sofa cushion. “Sythyry, c’mon with us, already? Make sure you’re wearing scrying emblems so Vae can watch.”

“The acceptable proposal is this to me! Not so acceptable are any of the other alternatives!” proclaimed Vae.

Very well. I’ll take on a nendrai any day, but not if my assistant is allied with her.

Hanijan Fleshpots and Brothels

Inconnu: “Guth-ha, sweet Guth-ha our hired tour guide, Guth-ha who knows all things about Hanija — where are the fleshpots, where are the bordellos, where may an appealing foreign Orren enjoy the embraces of native Rassimel, Herethroy, and Cani?”

Guth-ha: “There’s no such place like that, Sir Foreign. Hanija is always a very well-behaved city, very proper is here, sure. I can take you art show, nudes in the picture. Drinking, sometimes a bad thing might happen, when everyone all drunk, that would be you and your friends being together.”

Inconnu: “I have already had every one of my friends, except the Orren of course.”

Guth-Ha: “That is not how it is talked in public, Sir Foreign. Any of that happens in Hanija Mene, never say so, it is a very bad behavion and should not be said out loud. Just the married and the tofyof, that is all that is inside of the law. Very well and strict, is Hanija.”

Inconnu bravely pouted for a third of an hour.

Architecture

It never rains in Hanija.

There is plenty of water. The wall is a tremendous bubble over the city, and there are a thousand canals that take the place of city streets. But it never rains.

This has done some very strange things to the city’s architecture. Houses are fairly small, even by city standards. I have not the slightest idea why they are, by preference, three stories hall and cylindrical, and barely big enough for one room on each floor (with external stairs), and topped by a tall mast.

I do know why each house consists of three, four, five, or six cylinders, spaced more or less evenly around an open courtyard of grass, flowers, vegetable gardens, boardwalks, fountains, ponds, and what have you. (In the poorer regions of the city, the courtyard is likely to be scruffy grass, with maybe a few cheap flower beds and vegetable gardens. In the richer — any sort of thing.) This is because the courtyard is the most important room in the house. It is parlor, dining hall, room of games, meeting-room — any thing which might need any but the smallest room is done outdoors. For privacy, they draw tapestried curtains from house-tower to house-tower, and only a flier could see in. (I didn’t peek.)

Mirrored from Sythyry.

State of the Sythyry

And that’s the end of the second year of Sythyry’s Vacation. Two years, two hundred twenty-seven Sythyry’s Vacation entries, and a quarter of a million words later. (And still no actual doom-free vacation for Sythyry, but maybe zie’ll get to have some relaxation in Hanija.)

I’ve been posting three times a week for most of 2010. That’s been a bit much: I’ve generally been able to keep up with it, but I had to take a break for a while to recover at one point, and I haven’t written much other fiction.

So, my plan for 2011 is, two Sythyry posts a week, probably Monday and Thursday. And the usual scattering of Vae posts, polls, and other oddments, of course. Plus I’ll try to self-publish at least one of the books sitting around on my hard drive doing nothing. I’m also writing another one so it can sit around on my hard drive doing nothing for a while (and I’m looking for a couple of early readers for that, too).

But, Sythyry is a matter of vanity public utility public service, so if you zap me with a sufficient degree of joy about Sythyry (see below) in a given week, I’ll post more Sythyry.

How to Fuel Sythyry’s Vacation

I write and post Sythyry’s Vacation because I know that people read it and enjoy it. The more fuel I get for it, the more I’ll write. So here’s what I want for fuel, with the most important things up top. If you do any of these things, you are encouraging me to write more.

1. More readers! If you think that Yorgo the Approximately Glorious would like Sythyry’s Vacation, tell zir about it.
2. Feedback! Comments to me, on LJ or personal email or chat or whatever. Notes to Sythyry, which zie sometimes answers and occasionally (rarely!) even understands properly. Notes to other characters if you like. Suggestions to me of things you’d like to see. Cheers for things you’re glad you saw, or even complaints about things you weren’t glad you saw. Feedback is what keeps me writing day by day, so it’s definitely at the top of the list.
3. Buy our other stuff! There’s the World Tree RPG gamebook (which explains the physics and general world that Sythyry lives in) if you like gaming. My novel A Marriage of Insects is set in the same universe and has a similar style. Sythyry’s Journal is a collection of the first run of Sythyry, self-published. These are all available on Amazon (possibly free shipping), or you can order through us and get signatures and maybe other goodies (but not free shipping).
4. Reviews on SF and RPG sites! Honest ones, and I do hope that means they’re pretty good, but definitely honest.
5. Link me on your blog or website!
6. Artwork! I will bring the art page back up to date, even, and people will view and admire your artwork. Special Offer: If I get an icon of any Strayway character, I will let that character post and chat with you, as Vae is doing now. Want to talk to Grinwipey? Here’s your chance!
7. Donate! This is cyber-funded creativity, I suppose. I’m not particularly trying to make money off of it, but I do accept tips and will probably do something nice for you (like a cameo) if you give me one.
   
   
8. Answer the polls and such! I enjoy watching answers show up, and getting surprised at the collective opinion.
9. Send us other creative or fun stuff!

And if you don’t do any of that … please keep reading Sythyry anyways. That’s what it’s for. And as long as enough people are reading, and I know it, I’ll keep writing.

And if you’re already doing that or have done it, thank you very much!

Enjoy!

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Such an eventless voyage! I am afraid I shall be quite spoiled by it. Perhaps flying to and for about the uppermost branches, entirely in areas that were conquered and colonized and civilized before my parents were born, is somehow safer than zooming up and down the Verticals of the main trunk, or blipping off to horrible heavens.

Still: Hanija Mene. One of the largest of city-states: a segment of branch that must measure well over a hundred miles from end to end. The city of Hanija proper is vast and mighty, no less so than my home of Vheshrame. As with Vheshrame at its peak, Hanija exerts a great influence for several cities around. If the Duke of Hanija waves his hand, a tide comes upon Lizu or Jojutang — and those are mighty city-states in their own right.

Hanija Mene probably has less land than Vheshrame. It has, I think, more surface area — but a great part of that is water. Where we have several rivers weaving and criss-crossing their way across our mene, Hanija has a string of big lakes. They actually have occasional trouble with water-monsters … and they have plenty of Orren.

We shall see what the combination of ‘plenty of Orren’ and ’socially acceptable transaffection’ do together.

Oh, let’s see. The city walls of Hanija are of water: a vast bubble-shell over the city. It must be over a mile tall at the center, and at least four in diameter. It throws off rainbows when Flokin lights the sun, which is well worth seeing from above now and then. It also has some quite substantial spells upon it. If Vae were to try to come in, the wall would become a hoard of vicious fangy spiky ice-monsters and do its best to kill her. The wall-builders clearly preferred quantity over finesse, though; I must rank the Hanijan walls inferior to those of Vheshrame, or even of, oh, Barency. Far stronger than Eigrach’s or Dossimar’s. Not, I hope, that we ever need to worry about the details.

It also blocks off all rain coming to the city — most wall-builders prefer not to be quite so determined about blocking everything. So the city is between two lakes, and a thousand canals cut through it. I imagine they’ve got some sort of internal irrigation system; I can see plentiful trees and gardens through the water.

Entry to Hanija

We had, of course, sent letters to the Ministry of Externalities in Hanija, warning them that we were coming, with our load of students, nendrai, perverts, demons, angels, and wizards. They seemed singularly undisturbed by the prospect. This is somewhat understandable, for, some fifteen years ago, they disposed of a prior great monster — a scyanturge — without great difficulty. Perhaps they do not know that Vae is a very recent sort of nendrai; perhaps they are simply confident.

Hanija is the home to two wizards. Wingsa is a Zi Ri, some fourteen hundred years old. Zie, like me, is descended from Glikkonen, and is third-or-fourth generation depending on which way ’round you go. We don’t have any other ancestors in common. Zie is a rather conventional sort of lizard, from all I hear; zie has scales (green with yellow highlights) but no feathers. Zie is a rather conventional sort of wizard as well, specializing in spellcasting, with a distinct expertise in Corpador and Herbador.

Yiseth-Epu is the unusual one. She’s a Herethroy, some three hundred years old. She is a water-wizard: the mistress of water in all its forms and variations. She made the current city walls, I presume, so she must do enchantments. She is known for spellwork — enough spellwork to conquer a scyanturge, which is no small feat. She has turned world-leaves into clouds with ritual spells, which is also no small feat, and I believe the one that got her the title of wizard (since she invented the ritual spell).

This could hardly be better, at least as far as avoiding the troubles I had in Eigrach goes. Two wizards already, both rather my elders, so the city won’t be sneakily trying to acquire me. Neither wizard is particularly a specialist in my specialties, though, so I won’t be particularly competing with them. And both of them are quite busy with their own projects, according to various mutual acquaintances — inventing spells, for Wingsa, and water-sculpting for Yiseth-Epu — so I will not be interfering.

Professor Mump did his part in the arrangements too. He wrote to his colleagues at the High Academy of Hanija, giving his students certain contacts and assistances that may prove helpful to them. Or may prove devastating, for all I know. I had rather hoped that there would be a Department of Applied Transaffection there — and one of Theoretical Transaffection, where I could harden up my still-squidgy mental concepts of the matter — but no, there is no such thing. They do not actually have academic departments. Instead they have eminent professors, who study and teach whatever they feel like. Some of them are studying and teaching about prime behavior at the moment. One of them was a mathematician last year. One must wonder how good an education the High Academy produces.

Anyhow! A dozen of my passengers and a dozen of my crew have already made their way into Hanija. So has hCevian, despite all our best advice. As often when we arrive at a city that we will stay at for some while, I am staying outside, with Vae. She is constructing a letter to Oixe and their unhatched child out of nut-shells, twine, and spacewarps. I spent a while on important local correspondence (trying to arrange some meetings from my students), and now I am writing my journal. This will suffice for the day. I can be patient for the sake of my friend.

The ten things I would like to say to the people (the people are more than ten) are these ten things:

1. The great sorrow is on me for what I did to you.
2. The more grand and specific apology would I make to you if it were at all safe.
3. The vast love is with me for you. [
4. The offworld vacation is what I would like to take you on, if you dared to come with me.
5. The again is there a sorrow upon me for what I did to you, and the large sorrow it is, too.
6. If I could reverse time to such a degree, and would you have let me do it, so that you would be alive?
7. The tears of stabbing glass do hurt me as much as they would anyone. The lies I tell for the comfort of my friends.
8. The goal of a monster is to be less of a horror, not more. The more-goal is the luxury of primes.
9. The pickled snails I do not love to eat. The gift-compulsion it was that made me say so. The favorite food of mine they are not, nor do I much have the love of eating them, but I do so and I pretend so when you serve them to me out of kindness, and I appreciate the wish of yours to be kind to me more than I can ever say.
10. The great sorrow, again, is on me, for what I did to you.

[The love one is to Oixe. The vacation one is to Sythyry. The time one is to Seeks-*, I think, but it might be someone else. The eyes one is to Quendry. The less-monster one is to terrycloth, and is Vae's idiosyncratic prime-influenced opinion. The snails one is to Arfaen. ]

Mirrored from Sythyry.

There is a special look of panic that crosses a headwaiter’s face when he first sees that a Zi Ri is flying unannounced into his restaurant, intent on dining or other unimaginable acts of ancient, archaic wizardry. I haven’t inspired that panic all that often lately. In Eigrach, we mostly made reservations in advance. Barency is used to Zi Ri; several of us live there. The Chef of Great, regarded by one out of five tourbooks as the Best Up-and-Coming Restaurant in Torwosis, only opened two years ago, and there are no Zi Ri living in Torwosis, so I was probably their first Zi Ri customer ever.

This panic is thoroughly understandable. Everything about us is troublesome. We cannot sit in the chairs that the populous species use. Sometimes we can sit on the backs of chairs, or on the tops of couches — but that looks improvised and haphazard, which is not the atmosphere that a fine restaurant wishes to convey. Sometimes we must sit on the table, which is an extra trouble: not only does the restaurant look utterly unprepared, it takes up extra space on the table and imperils the meals of other diners. Or we can just levitate, which makes the restaurant look even worse (a diner who must expend zir own magic for zir comfort at table!) and emphasizes to everyone just what sort of person is being ill-served.

Dually, we do not eat very much, as we are small people. Generally I try to be polite and order a full-sized meal anyhow, thus paying as large a bill as anyone else. Still, one may understand that a typical waiter does not know this, and expects to undergo substantial trouble for a very small tab.

Anyhow, a considerably flustered waiter sat me on the corner of a table, with Arfaen on one side and Phaniet on the other.

I proclaimed, “Ah, Yistreia! How could one truly enjoy mice, if it were not for your adventures in cuisine! O waiter, do you have mice today?”

The waiter wagged her tail. “Indeed we do, O Zi Ri, for service to those who wish to eat the traditional food of our region. But we are a very cosmopolitan restaurant, a panoply of delicacies of many nations. Allow me to recommend the Aradrueian goulash, the honeyed beetles in the style of Daukrhame, the awe-inspiring blue curry in the manner of distant, ruined Dossimar!”

Phaniet laughed. “Well, we have recently been in Lenkasia on Aradrueia; we are from Vheshrame next to Daukrhame, and we are the ones who ruined Dossimar.” Somehow, this failed to unfluster the waiter in the slightest. Phaniet and I may have been working at cross-purposes on this point.

I noted, “Not that we tasted any of the cuisine of Dossimar when we were there!”

Arfaen giggled. “Ill-mannered pirates they were! What sort of a lout tries to rape a woman without offering her so much as a single taste of the local delicacies?”

It was at about this point that I realized how much of an adventurer Arfaen has become. I suppose it is inevitable, and perhaps not too terrible. The waiter, however, was even less put at ease by Arfaen’s jest.

After a certain amount of discussion, I ordered a Sequence of Seven Various Mice, with the proviso that Phaniet would eat half of each one. Arfaen ordered Something With Fish, and Phaniet ordered a Grand Cassoulet of Arhoolie and Peppers upon Spicy Sausage. The waiter all but bolted for the kitchen with our orders.

Mouse 1

The first mouse was butterflied, skewered, sprinkled with coarse salt, grilled, stuffed with spinach, and served on a sauce of a light yogurt cream, sprinkled with purple flowers. It was every bit as good as it sounds.

Phaniet said, “Very basic — one really could get something like that anywhere, I think.”

I disputed, “The yogurt in the cream sauce is particularly particular!”

Phaniet wagged her tail. “Perhaps only a quarter of anywhere. It is certainly finely grilled.”

Mouse 2

The second mouse was butterflied, skewered, sprinkled with mustard-dust, and served raw with a chiffonade of arhoolie leaves. “O honored guests,” said the waiter, “Please be careful and take lightly of the arhoolie leaves! They are potent and pungent and powerful! A single bite of them and it will feel as if the top of your head were being prised off by a nycathath, and your brain sprinkled generously with ground quachammog peppers! If this occurs, please do not destroy the restaurant!”

“I thank you considerably for the warning,” I said. I have been eating arhoolie leaves for well over a century. (Actually, they are every bit as bad as she says, and they do not get better with practice.)

Mouse 3

The third mouse was butterflied, skewered, sprinkled with green herbs, grilled over a camphor flame at the table, and doused with melted cheese. Further commentary is unavailable, as, due to the melted cheese, it has to be eaten very quickly. It certainly slid down quite fast.

Mouse 4

The fourth mouse was butterflied, skewered, marinated in sweet brandy, dipped in cumin salt, grilled over a source of radient heat, and wrapped in the leaves of bitter woodmock and hyssop.

Phaniet said, “Oh, that is delicious!”

“It is. Still, may I give either of you the forequarters of my mouse? I am getting rather full,” I said.

Arfaen eliminated the quarter-mouse with a simple yet elegant stab of the skewer.

Mouse 5

The fifth mouse was butterflied, marinated in pepper sauce, wrapped in arhoolie leaves, heavily buttered, dipped in a thick egg batter, and deep-fried, and served with a potent tamarind pepper sauce.

“Oh, dearie. Maybe I’ll have just the head, if that’s OK with you, Phaniet?”

Mouse 6

The sixth mouse was butterflied, marinated in vinegar, skewered on cinnamon sticks, and simmered for hours in a light mushroom broth.

“That’s pleasantly light after that egg-battered mouse!” I managed to engulf nearly a third of it. It was fortunate that I was not levitating or perched on the back of a chair, for I was nearly spherical with mouse by then.

Mouse 7

The seventh mouse was butterflied, skewered, battered, deep-fried, chopped into little bits, and served in a thick honey sauce.

I ate one little bit and fell into a stark coma, in which dreams of skewered mice tormented me with dramatic recitals of the menus of all the restaurants I had ever eaten at. (Or, at least, pushed the plate over to Phaniet and Arfaen, and acted generally drowsy and overfed for the rest of the meal.)