– Definition: adj. Having a meaning that is mysterious or obscure
– Used in a sentence: The president’s* speeches are somewhat cryptic to those who don’t share his gestalt, and altogether not for those who do.
– Why: What with the instant-knowledge advent of Google and Wikipedia, the cryptic quality is in danger of disappearing. Don’t let that sense of enigmatic mystery die.
(Seven printed pages. If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. Enjoy.)
PROSATIO SILBAN’S FACE WAS THE picture of dispassionate interest, but his heart gave a familiar tug of weary resignation. This is what comes of confusing prosperity with blessing, he thought.
The Cook For Any Price and his prospective client’s retainer, Ulud, were sitting on lacquered folding chairs in the shade of the cook’s galleywagon which, along with innumerable booths, stalls and stands, congested the dockside bazaar of cosmopolitan Soharis. Bright hawker’s cries and early spring sunlight cut the chill morning air, and the salty breeze rising from the bay tangled the market’s aromas and odors into a seductive mélange. A dozen languages spilled from dozens of mouths: porters and sailors, farmers and fishermen, merchants and buyers, all bustling about their perpetual business with customary gusto.
The road to a friend’s house is never long.”
— Dave Chavoya
(Five-and-a-half printed pages. If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction.)
ALTHOUGH PROSATIO SILBAN’S COUNTRYMEN WERE were wary of most forms of magik – spells, illusions, conjurations, astral mucking-about – their phobia didn’t quite extend to items of convenience.
Amulets and talismans were generally tolerated throughout the Three Cities and Thousand Villages of the Uulian Commonwell, so long as they carried the patronage of one of the six-hundred-thirteen Flickering Gods. Difficulty staying awake? Finger a token sacred to Stueten, God of Energetic Determination. At your wits’ end over that crying infant? Zzyzzyvor, Bringer of Restful Relief has a charm just for you. Feeling the ennui of the jaded urbanite? A blessed figurine of Oliento, Goddess of Small Pleasures is what’s needed.
(BE HONEST — YOU MUST HAVE known I’d get around to this one eventually, right?)
I make no rigid claims of authenticity, accuracy, or authorship for this work. As far as I’m concerned, this is “simply” a collection of ancient Jewish campfire didactics which were knit together in somewhat final form some 2,500 years ago. And everything about it is open to (ideally informed) debate. That’s kind of the point, actually: to give us, and have given us, something to discuss as a community as we grope our way through the often-cruel centuries. Torah (literally, “teaching” or “instruction”) is what has kept us going for as long as we’ve been here — it ain’t the lox and bagels, folks.
(Five-and-a-half printed pages, and a bit ribald. If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction.)
THE KEEP’S NAME WAS “CASTLE Cautroffs,” after an ancestor of its then-current occupant. But Prosatio Silban was to remember it as a test of his tact, delicacy, and personal taste.
Castle Cautroffs was perched on a high cliff overlooking the Uulian Commonwell’s southwestern coast, about a week’s galleywagon-journey from cosmopolitan Soharis. The castle anchored the holdings of m’Lord Lakgor Tario, an elderly but still-vital Heir Second overseeing the local sea-frontier, a lightly forested hillscape, and a sprinkling of mostly productive villages.
Prosatio Silban had been hired by the noble to instruct his daughter in the art and craftship of cookery. She was somewhat younger than the beefy cook; tall, poised, and possessed of the classic Heir Second bearing. Her soft brown curls reached almost to her waist, and she had the sort of face and proportions about which Uulian poets enjoy rhapsodizing at length. She fixed piercing grey eyes on her proposed teacher as her father made polite introductions.
(Eight printed pages. If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction.)
WHETHER IT WAS THROUGH A dream or a vision, Prosatio Silban knew one thing with absolute certitude – his beloved mentor was dead. He arose from his galleywagon bunk, bowed his head and let out a gentle, almost imperceptible moan.
It was unexpected news. The Cook For Any Price had not heard any word from or about Master Trentum Urdoin for quite some time. The last he knew, from some ten years ago, was that the man was still in good health and good spirits.
But he was convinced of the communication’s inherent truth.
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