From: Scott Haney (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Date: Fri 16 Jan 1998 - 02:45:28 EET
& From: email@example.com (Stephen Martin)
& Well, technically, Pavis' mother was a dryad, not an elf, so calling him
& a half-elf is partly a linguistic thing, though most male children born
& to dryads are elves, it is true. Does that help you?
A bit. The dryad bit had escaped me. Thanks.
to Quirinius Flatus, Chief Librarian
Irripi Ontor Temple at Glamour
I have enclosed a transcript of a tale told to me by one of the
servants in the Governor's manse in Pavis. He would not give me
a name, but claimed to be royalty from one of the smaller Hsunchen
tribes to the northwest of Sartar. When I asked him why a prince would
spend his days emptying chamber pots (which seemed to be his
primary duty), he replied with this story. I later learned from
other palace staff that the old man wasn't particularly good
at being a servant, but his stories were so wild and entertaining
that Sor-Eel kept him on. I pass it on to you for archival and
possibly some insights into the workings of other parts of the
All hail the Reaching Moon
IO temple, Pavis
You think this job is bad? I've had far worse. In fact, the
worst job I ever had was working on a Dalthippan road crew.
No, truly. You see, they'd have you believe that the roads
were built by the priests of the Daughter, and that's true, but
the bulk of the work was done by slaves and laborers. See, they'd
kind of pave the road out, but it wasn't very level for all them
ladies in their wagons, so they'd send men out to level the
road with shovels. See, we'd pry up the stones a bit and put some
dirt and pebbles under it, then sort of dance on the stone to level
But that's not the bad part. The bad part was the cooking. See,
the guvmint didn't send no cooks out with the crews. Seems they
had some trouble once with some uppity cook what started a
rebellion or something, so they didn't send any out with us. Each
crew was supposed to pick out it's own cook. Problem was, nobody
wanted to do the cooking, so what we'd do is make the man what
complained the most about the food be the cook.
See, that was me. Old rubble runner mouth. Bitched about the
food once and they said, "Okay, wise guy. You do better." I hated
it, but I couldn't think of a way out of it.
Well, one day, I was out hunting when I came across this big old
moose turd. I mean, it was huge. And fresh, cuz it was still a
bit steamy. And I thought to myself, "If I make me some bad food,
then somebody will complain and then I won't hafta do the cooking
no more." So I got a couple of sticks and rolled that moose turd
up on edge and brought it back to the cook wagon. Then I went in
and made me up some dough and made me a nice pie crust and set that
old moose turd in it. I covered it up with more dough and baked it
up all nice and brown. It was the purtiest thing I ever cooked, it
was. And I waited.
About sundown, the workers all came back with Gerra in front. He
was this big old troll of a man with an appetite to match, and
I just watched and waited. Then he sees that pie and grabs himself
a big old piece with his hands and shoves it in his mouth. Second
later, he spits it out and lets out a bellow that would scare
Lodril shitless and says, "By the wind! That's moose turd pie!"
"It's good, though."
[This is based on an old shaggy dog story. Particularly, it's
based on a version told by Utah Phillips relating to the
railroads of the American West.]
Baron von Moosehsunchen
Scott Haney firstname.lastname@example.org
Intolerance is a state no tolerant man can tolerate. -- McGinley
This archive was generated by hypermail 2.1.7 : Fri 13 Jun 2003 - 22:49:16 EEST