Of the many men to and froe, comings and goings, arrivals and partings of Snugglewood, a see-change shift in the mystic winds happened once again. Since the time of Garag’s rage, Ironhand’s anger, and a half-a-dozen other discordant contentious characters, the Nook turns slowly on its axis now, as it hath done before.
When Tadisaga the heavenly sphere revolves with diminished in speed, decelerates, the effect is that the world recovers. A temporal repose of healing natures wounds. That divine reflection undergrowth begins to creep out of the ground and reclaim the land for its own.
So, only annually does time shift at a normal, regular pace; and that time, that place, dwelt in the house of Aphrodite. Not a house of ill repute, nor a constellation, but an amicable ale-house, where gamers meet to throw dice, play cards, and tell stories about the fire. A meeting of minds in a social setting where bards play and storytellers recount countless tales, real and imagined, to eager audiences, who re-live these stories, most of which are only passed by word of mouth. Sometimes they be lost to the ether, sometimes written down and recorded for posterity, but most times are much like an ice-sculpture: appreciated for the moment, before melting from memory, fading slowly, until the story seeps into the ground.
A shady character crept into the ale-house of Aphrodite in the reign of Augustus Decimus, in the morning. This bard was incognito, a surprise, and the highlight of his year was to tell his own tale, and to hear another. At half-past he would begin, and not finish until the last carriage home.
Maxen is headed to a Convention this year…