The Metaphorager.

WHEN YOU’RE ROUSTED FROM A warm bed around midnight, it had better be worthwhile.

What in the Nine Hells is that racket? Prosatio Silban thought, rolling out of his sleeping berth and onto his galleywagon’s ornate braided rug. Is something on fire? A rampage of animals? Natural disaster? What? and more so, why?

The loud and rhythmic rapping at his door was then punctuated by slurred cries of “Hey! Cook! Wake up! I’m hungry!”

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ALTHOUGH THE UULIANS COMMONLY CREMATE their deceased, it is also common for the bereaved survivors – at least, those with means – to erect quaint stone monuments in favored locations. Rare is the park, garden, or waterside lacking at least one discreet marker listing a decedent’s name, death date, and tender qualities, thus:

Melora Hyart
13 Jackal, Year of the Panting Cat
Beloved Friend, Wise Mentor, and Devoted Daughter-in-Law

On occasion, the memorial might also mention an achievement of some sort – Honest Launderer, perhaps, or Accomplished Throat-Musician, or Taxidermist Supreme.

And sometimes, the “achievement” was a favorite recipe.

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IT ALL BEGAN WHEN Prosatio Silban leapt forward.

“Look out!” he bellowed, grabbing the careless man’s belt and yanking him back from the edge of the algae-slick dock.

“Blessed All-Mother!” the man exclaimed, straightening. “You saved me life!”

Prosatio Silban smiled. “Not really. All I did was –”

“All you did was save me life!” the man finished, taking his rescuer’s hand and shaking it with deep feeling. “As sure as my name is Gremo Elyp, I’ll never forget it!”

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