An exercise in world building - snippets of a growing background tale

"It is said that on the day the other Lords of the Arbitrations refused to bow down to his glory, Thamsa-Hathu-Misan tossed down his own tower in disgust, renouncing his draconic heritage, and taking a mortal form."

A smile creased the scars of Tam-Hattu's deep brown face. "You talk too much of ancient history, Zotikos. I prefer the present." Stroking the rust stained boulder made of rotting steel and nickel, the killer faced his companion. "Or the future."

The ebony face meeting his stayed solemn, a bare inclination his only acknowledgement of the human's words for a moment. Turning, he stared at another of the high, broad hoodoos of metal, stone, and gems rising from the floor of the wide valley, thoughtful.

Tam-Hattu grunted, knowing that pose. "Damned if you will lecture me on things I know as well as you, healer."

"Perhaps." Raising a hand to shove silver streaked jet hair off his pointed ears, the elf smiled as he looked back at the other. "Or perhaps, mine foe, I ask the one who knows the tale best to tell it to me."

Head shaking, the assassin held up his left arm, decorated with many designs carved and stained onto his mahogany skin. "Doubtful. You know much, youngling, but lack the wisdom to sit through all I would tell you."

"Though some believe I am but the latest to serve a certain heir to these columns, you know better." Corners of his mouth turned down, the elf gazed upon the rubble pile, one of many. Some cast down by those that raised them, others destroyed by others who sat upon the hoodoos. "I ask it, now, before our final conflict. I would know why we fight, Thamsa-Hathu-Misan."

Dead eyes met the healer's gaze. "Since when does the physician seek dominance, boy."
Silently, the healer held up his left hand, as his right drew the golden scalpel from his belt, letting the precious metal crease his left wrist faintly. Small droplets of golden blood oozed past the exposed green sinews and muscles, evoking a gasp from his companion. Three tiny drops rippled down the healer's forearm, leaving the impression they rose and fell away from that flesh like a stream over flat boulders well worn by her passage.

"Which whelp of his are you, boy?" Tam-Hattu hissed.

Smiling, the healer waited as the drops touched his elbow, then leapt to the ground. Rumbles of thunder echoed in the amphitheater, despite the absence of clouds. The earth resonated to sky's utterance, shaking beneath their feet. Tam-Hattu stepped in closer, fast, his own black knife drawn.

"Fool! You would dare raise a tower here?"

Grinning impishly, the healer thrust his hand up, and the only tower that rose to a shattered peak shook, yellow and green lightning flaring from its shivering summit. "Merely show you which I already have."

Warily, the assassin stepped back, eyes doubting what he saw. The knife stayed low, ready to strike up, still in ways few humans would be able to mimic. Moments later, he laughed, sheathing the blade. "Clouds of Athalan, boy you surprise me. I never thought you would stoop to healing those you once vowed to slay."

Corners of his emerald eyes dancing slowly, Zotikos slid his blade back into the belt pouch at his side. "Really? Then you never truly knew me, uncle."

"I guess not. So,  your proposal, failed Arbitrator?" The title rang with harsh sarcasm.

Sighing, the elf turned away. "No. I know now I was not the one to restore the Pact of the Arbitrations. Call me as I am known, or by the name burned into my shell. But that title I refuse now."

Tam-hattu let his knife settle back into its sheath, face curious. "But you want to make a deal? With the one who would kill you as he has others?"

"Aye, Brother of mine Father's father. I would know the truth of this place and those days. In return, I offer any knowledge you wish that I have, save two bits."

Frowning, the assassin settled onto a small boulder. "What are those bits you will not speak of?"

Carefully brushing off another boulder, several spear lengths away, the healer spoke softly, barely audible above the faint susurrus of the random breezes dancing amid the towers. "The name of the Arbitrator of Restoration, which I know not, but have clues to. And the true meaning of seeing without eyes."

Shaking his head, the human chuckled. "So. That is why we fight, Ankara-Keweii-Ghani?"
"Yes. I have chosen to let the fates have their way, you still seek to bind them to your will."
 Whispering something else, that the breezes tore apart.

Tam-Hattu waited, knowing those words meant something important. His companion waited as well, refusing to repeat it.

"As my ears do not burn, I take it that was no insult or challenge, so we'll let that slide." Chuckling, the assassin leaned back a bit, settling in for a long rest. "But to speak of such days amid these pillars is dangerous."

Zotikos was less restrained, throwing his head back in mirth. "Indeed, they will tremble to remember their masters, now long gone, shaking the bones of this orb mightily. But, I do not fear that. Let them know some dared enter the Amphitheater of Arbitrations, and speak of those days amid her abandoned thrones."

Tam-Hattu smiled at the thought of chaos in many places as the trembling earth tossed down buildings of lesser beings. "We of Athalan must always enjoy such terror in the prey this orb gives us."

Both fell silent, waiting for the blazing orb known as Jzhan to fall beneath the western rim of the great bowl. Night was the time for such tales, not the warmth of day, when one really should ride the thermals high, to hunt prey or wealth.

The Shiny Distractions

Amid bowling ball rocks,
scattered through the gravel,
tiny sparkles distract me
as I load trailers
from the old stream-bed
to haul off later.

Gleams lying of wealth,
mostly flakes of mica
from shattered quartz chunks
to the rotten stuff
the locals call granite,
but fails hardness tests.

'Cause of my appearance,
the heavy packs carried,
some called me "Prospector"
and this ol' bar
tempts me to try
runnin' a few pans.

But I know well
That's futility talkin' there,
as at the best
a few small flakes
is all that won't
float away on trying.

Sadly, despite hopes raised,
I'll get more cash
from the old cans
left from kids' parties
when this lot lay
empty, awaiting a building.

Not to mention pennies
from some subcontractor's ashtray
tossed out one day
by the front entry.
Then again, who knows?
Without pan, not I.

My thoughts turn again
to the distant headwaters
of that shifting stream,
The Little Cottonwood Canyon,
where old mines lay...
so there's a chance.

Some of those holes
held precious metals inside,
just as many failed
according to books read
the last few years
while at the Library.

So waiting for awhile,
I wander around slowly,
glancing down at soil
that beckons me constantly
to use things around
to take a stab.

Got a hose handy,
but ain't a clue
as to how one
should use it here
as a poor-man's sluice.
Probably better that way.

Better I just sit,
smoking my pipe quietly.
For knowing my luck
the neighbors would complain
about me placer mining
inside the city limits.

The bar's likely claimed,
or already played out,
save those few reflections
begging me to try
like foolish folk before,
only to be disappointed.

Back to work, boy.
Nothing here for you
save those aluminum cans,
the abandoned pennies, and
weeds amid the rock,
that also need pulling.

Then again, maybe... tossing a handful onto the pavement?

23July2014 - Dyfedd Rex