From: Michael O'Brien (mrmob@ozemail.com.au)
Date: Sun 03 Aug 1997 - 02:29:22 EEST
G'day all,
____________
Victoria Con
I had a truly splendid time in sunny Victoria, and really enjoyed meeting a
host of familiar faces again, and a whole lot of new ones, particularly the
Digest's Peter Metcalfe (the man with a different passport for every
contingency) and Martin Laurie (even scarier in real life). The con
organisers (Neil, Bill, Paul, the Seattle Farmers' Collective) did a great
job, and the con book Enclosure is a joy to behold. A big thankyou all
round!
The con kicked off with 'Welcoming the Goddess' and it was a hoot. After
last year's Convulsion's 'HeroQuest Party' - in which my group staged a
sort of "Carry On Up the Cradle" farce, replete with cross-dressing, the
Y-E-L-M song and ritual castration of David Hall - I was worried that we
couldn't rise to such heights (or sink to such depths) this year. Not to
worry - our team, whose job it was to welcome the Red Goddess, decided the
only types who'd do this with any enthusiasm would be *sensitive New Age*
Orlanthi. When the event ended in a mass "group hug" (which unfortunately
became catch-cry of the con, as it turned out), I knew we'd won the hearts
of even the most recalcitrant.
I had a blast in Life of Moonson, hamming it up as very familiar Moonson.
If next week's National Enquirer features grainy shots of a jump-suited
Elvis strolling through the grounds of UVic and the goggle-eyed testimony
of some Southern tourist, relax - it was probably me. Full scenery-chewing
credit must go to Arch-Cenobite Phil Anderson and Kerie Campbell as
Princess Amora. I only wish we could have played the Darth Vader music as
John Medway strode into the room as the masked Bellex Maximus, and Marion
Anderson was wearing a masterpiece of plastic engineering as Jar-Eel the
Razoress that made roleplaying around her somewhat, er distracting.
Despite copping Beat Pot's helmet on the bonce during one harrowing scene,
I don't know if it was the fear or the great love people have for their
emperor that meant that I didn't need to use a single card or special
ability during the game to assert Moonson's will.
I attended a number of very interesting seminars (though I mistakenly
thought that the one on "Black Sheep Races" would involve some sort of
running or physical activity - it turned out to be about ducks, tusk
riders, newtlings and the like; some fascinating stuff came out though I
left when the talk got round to Grotarons). Apres-events get-togethers
were great too: at one we comprehensively covered with Greg what the God
Learner Secret *isn't*, and can I think I can now summarise what caused
their downfall in one word, or even a gesture.
After the con I joined Dave Pearton's trip to the San Juan islands. He
promised us frolicking orcas, bald eagles and seals, and we got 'em in
spades! Dave was a brilliant tour guide and host and the whale-watching in
kayaks was an unforgettable experience.
Looking forward to seeing as many of you as we can in Melbourne next January!
Cheers
MOB
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>From the Notes from Nochet files:
[XXIX.1345.Gerallon/p2*]
It was raining when he arrived in a village. He walked slowly through,
now shivering under his soaked cloak, avoiding all doors. From the inn
came the glow of a warm fire, the odour of a hearty meal and the sounds of
merriment.
He avoided the inn.
Almost abandoning hope of finding any peaceful shelter for the night he
noticed, on the fringes of town, an old building, curiously made of worked
stone. Before its door were two pillars; one on a crazy angle, the other,
having given up the struggle against age and gravity, lying in the grass.
The building appeared to be an abandoned temple: the runes on the pillars
told it to be that of Lhankor Mhy, the sage-god.
He mounted the stairs cautiously, and pushed open the door. It was dark
inside, but dry, and safe. He entered, his hooves clomping on the hard
floor and echoing off the walls. It was then he noticed a glimmer of
light.
An old, bearded man approached him, carrying a lantern, yet his sightless
eyes showed the lamp was not for himself (unless he carried it only because
he was used to doing so). "Who is here?", the old one asked, turning his
head as if trying to listen where the intruder was.
"My name is Gerallon", replied the stranger.
"What are you doing here stranger? I don't recognize your voice."
"I don't live in these parts; I have no profession. I am just ...a wanderer."
"And the inn was full? And you would like to ask me for shelter?"
"Yes ...I thought the temple was empty."
"My Lord never leaves his temples abandoned. Or ...I have have not heard
of one, anyway. Follow me." The elderly priest turned, but halted again
when he heard the stomping. "You have boots reinforced with bronze,
Gerallon."
"I wear no boots." There was a moment's silence. "It's my hooves."
Gerallon paused again, and the blind man began to walk on.
"I'm a broo, old man."
The expected reaction didn't come. The old man just shrugged his
shoulders and kept walking. "Well, I hope you're clean, Gerallon, it
wouldn't want to catch something from you. Come this way."
The blind sage led his guest to a small room, furnished with sparsely
with bed and nightstand. It was warm and dry. The priest beckoned further
down the hall, where, through an archway, came the flickering glow of a
fire. "Join me when you're ready" he said, and shuffled down the hall.
Later, Gerallon entered the large chamber and gasped. Shelves covered
its walls, and they brimmed with leather-bound books, wound scrolls and an
incredible array of exotic items: among them; jars containing preserved
specimens, a dragonskin, a collection of coloured pennants, assorted lumps
of crystal and yes, high on a top shelf, a broo skull, short-horned like
his own.
In the center of the room, his back to the fireplace, the old man was
seated at a huge table, piled high with volumes and scrolls. He was
reading, if that is what you would call it, his fingers moving slowly over
the lines in a book, his lips mouthing words. When he heard Gerallon
approach he turned his head in the approximate direction of his guest.
"Take a seat", he said, gesturing to a place at the table where a modest
meal and mug of mulled wine had been set. He groped for his own mug, and
Gerallon passed it to him.
Gerallon ate silently, studying the priest who occasionally sipped his
drink and yet still moved his fingers on the page before him. Finally, the
old man put the book away and took up a blank piece of parchment and a
quill.
"Well." said he, dipping the quill in a small ink-well (its pool
cunningly shaped like an open mouth). "You must know that we, the sages of
Lhankor Mhy, collect information - of any kind. Like, why does a broo come
to me peacefully for shelter?"
"And does not cut your throat instead?"
"Exactly. Would you tell me your story?"
"Yes, old man."
*note: this is the second part of a story submitted to Tales so long ago I
have lost the author's name. The english language version here was
substantially polished from the original submission by me; I think author
might have been Finnish or Swedish. I've put it up here because it is
unlikely it will ever be published in the zine but I think it is good 'un
(and I spent quite a while working on it at the time). It would be great
if I could get in touch with the author again.
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