Come away with me, for a moment. If you like. Step away from the Sky Castle, from the glittering rains, from harrowing escapes, and join me a little further down the page. A little further ahead. I do not mean to spoil this story, and I will take great pains to say as little as possible about what you’ve yet to see. It was a wonderful journey for me, and I daren’t rob you of the surprise. It’s just, there’s stories everywhere you look. Didn’t you see them on the way here? We must’ve passed at least a hundred or so. Behind, above, beyond, within, before, after, sideways, and every which ways there could be, all of them leaping in and out of each other’s way without end. If you’ve not read to the end of this one, and you don’t want to step aside, then please! Leave me here a while longer, and [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/184360-sunshards/ic?page=14#post-5305991]go on ahead[/url]. There’s really no rush at all, you see. When you’re ready, I’ll be here, and we’ll march on together. Are you ready? Follow me, then, to a little further in this story, for I have one of my own to tell all of you. It starts, of course, in a tavern, the ideal habitat for stories. They collect there, you see, with every person who passes through the doors, into the shared company of all who desire food, drink, and friends. They do a tidy business in all three, these days! On the way to Ys, no one really wanted to stop for very long, not when they might miss the action. But now that the duels are all done, who is in a great hurry to leave? The roads are more and less clogged than before. Less, that one can actually make their way to where one wants to go in a reasonable span of time. More, that there are always, [i]always[/i] people moseying down the road, and there will be for months to come. There are friends to see, friends to make, and the inns do a fair bit of business between them. Do I need to tell you of this tavern in particular? Perhaps I should. It would be mean, to say that it’s like all the others, when no two are really alike. This one’s got a huuuuuuuuge tree, growing right in the center of it. There’s no roof, ‘cause the leaves grow thick enough year round to keep out even the wildest of storms, and lamps hang down from the lowest branches to light up the main room. The bar circles around the trunk, and there’s tables out beyond that, all decked out in flowers and sturdy enough to dance on. There’s a big, shiny jukebox for when nobody’s got an instrument, and a little raised stage for when everybody’s got an instrument. Out in the back’s a quiet greenhouse, with even more flowers and bushes and a little stream running right through the middle of it, and smaller tables set up here and there for folks who want some privacy and quiet. Do I need to tell you of the company within? Of course I do! They change by the minute, they do. In the corner, two ponies swap yarns of wild adventure; one a mocha colt of immaculate grooming, the other clad in biker’s leathers and goggles. A pegasus all wrapped in robes listens with barely-restrained amusement, silently debating if she should join the sad-looking prince poking at his meal at the bar. Two more ponies sit snuggling close together as they listen, the sea-blue stallion with his eyes wide, all but hidden beneath the wing of the ice-cool pegasus next to him. And lest you think they only ought to serve hay here, a stuffy, well-kept lad counts himself among the audience, white as a sheet at hearing such thrilling tales. A scarred kobold sits an intentional few seats away from an outlandishly robed wizard at the bar, both much bothered by all the hullabaloo, yet neither actually getting up to leave. Begrudgingly, they absorb information, while repelling the company with their best scowls. Meanwhile, a blindfolded martial artist dances nimbly from table to table, much to the raucous cheers of an absolute giant of a man. A noble swordsman finally steps inside, having just found a proper place outside to lean his thirty-foot greatsword, and a corgi leaps from his arms to chase a laughing, bumbling little boy about the room. Their conversation flows ceaselessly from story to story, most telling of the battle they’d all just witnessed. But these, ah, these stories are weeks old now, and most have been heard already. No one says it, but everyone’s heart hungers for it; something new. A fresh tale, something about the people of this battle that they’d never heard before. And it’s then, when the chatter hits a low ebb, that the cloaked figure at the end of the bar raises his voice above them all. “I was there.” All fall silent, obligingly letting the mysterious figure fix the lot of them with his hooded gaze. “I was there when the heroes looted the Sky Castle, and fell from the heavens!” ************************************************* But first, a word about sheep, and shepherds. As you may know, sheep are possessed of some of the softest, most open hearts around, which is how they grow such lovely wool. How can they be so warm on the outside without hearts that are just as toasty and welcoming on the inside? Set anything, anything in front of a sheep, and they will jump into it with such a vigor they might get a touch forgetful of things. Such as: Wolves are not friends. I’m not actually able to get back down from this high cliff. My shepherd has always given me plenty to eat, every day of my life, and perhaps I don’t need to take a nip at his lunch to keep from starving. Sheep stay in herds out of a big love for their fellows, a sense of safety, and a very clever attempt to crowdsource their common sense. After all, if a bunch of sheep are bleating, well, perhaps that’s what you ought to do too! Have you ever tried it? It’s really quite simple, and - no, really, it [i]is[/i] the safest thing for them. Maybe, sometimes, occasionally, the herd accidentally gets a silly idea in its head, and it’s quite the adventure to get it out again, but it’s much better than when they’re scattered about! With that many sheep around, it’s so easy to remember where they’re supposed to be, and what they’re supposed to be doing. If a sheep goes lost on its own, one of the first things they’re bound to forget is the way back home. How can they possibly make their way back, when there’s so many interesting, forgetful-inducing things between here and there? Thus, the shepherd! A clever fellow who always, always remembers the right things, and doesn’t scold the sheep for being forgetful, and gives them treats for being so good. Why have I told you all this? Because our story picks up on a shepherd by the name of Sam, on the trail of a runaway sheep, and now you know the urgency of his quest! That little sheep is lost, and he doesn’t even know it yet! He’s too busy chasing after something mysterious, known only to him, to realize it’s been ages since he’s seen a fluffy face. He’s even too busy to hear the increasingly strained shouts of his dear shepherd. No amount of “c’mon nows!”, “you stop that right now!”, or even “look! I’ll get you some treats when we get back!” can reach him! The shepherd puts on a terrific burst of speed, but, darnit, little sheep sure are full of scampers when they get a mind to it. Every time he gets close, the little guy squeezes through a tight gap in the trees, or ducks under a pile of rocks, and the shepherd has to take the long way around, and he’s fallen behind again. If only the shepherd had a way to get that silly sheep’s attention, just for a moment! Good news: There was a way! Bad news: Be careful what you wish for! KA-BOOM! A sound so big, it shakes the trees! The ground! The air! Poor Sam goes tumbling, bum over teakettle, right as his quarry freezes in place. Two ships pass in the afternoon, just by a hair, and he tumbles smack into a tree. And here, listener, he proves his worth to the title of shepherd, when he resists the seductive call of lying in a pile of limbs until the world makes sense again. “Woolbur,” he groans, trying to figure out which blob of white was the correct one. “You alright? You-hey! No! Not [i]again![/i] Not that way!” Too little, too late. Woolbur is off and running. Running the silliest, most least safe way he could. Which is to say, the only direction a curious sheep could run: Straight towards the Biggest Kaboom. The shepherd scrambles, legs and arms in hot debate over which ones oughta be up and which ones oughta be on the ground, but there’s no time to settle the matter and we’re just gonna have to work it out as we go. Over hills! Through the forests! On the trail of a rascal too troublesome to keep himself out of trouble! “Woolbur! This ain’t a game! You gotta stop and, and-” He bursts from a clearing, to find Woolbur sitting perfectly still, his fluffy butt parked square on the ground. “-and, oh. Y’did stop. Why’d you…?” And he turns his eyes to the Sky. Everybody knows, dear listener, that every story ever told actually happened somewhere, somehow. Maybe not in the way you heard it, but every story’s born of something. Once upon a time, there were ten suns. The year is 200X. There is a snake curled around the whole wide world. These things happened somewhere, to somebody. And some bodies lived it, and some bodies wrote it down for later, and some bodies told everybody they knew what’d happened. Until there you are, huddled up with a snack and a warm drink, listening wide-eyed to a legend of someplace far, far away. And you hear, and you eat, and you dream about places you’ve never been and people you’ve never seen, and in your heart you know you live in a world of great magic. Where stories both wonderful and terrible live beneath the surface of everything you can see, just waiting to spring forth. Even though they never do, for you. You live in a world of great magic, far away. Somewhere out there, it happens. Right until it’s your turn. You stumble into open ground, and turn your eyes to the Sky. There they fall; three of them. And two more. A Princess of the Northern Winds, dressed in the frilly finery of a top-class maid, riding atop her sword. A being of the ancient world, bound willingly in the form of a blushing, squirming maiden. And they hold each other. A girl who might live in your very village, if it weren’t for the rainbow battle dress and shining sword across her back. A lady of wolves, sharp and dangerous and soft and smiling. And they hold each other very, very close. A fox who is also a girl, who is also trying very very very hard to commit crimes. And she’s tied up in a net. They’re falling, all of them. It’s got to be miles to the ground. That’s got to be a fortune in the air around them. Enough to, to, gosh, to do whatever you could do with money here, and still have money left over. But nobody’s watching the gold. They’re sort of watching the ground, but not [i]worrying[/i] about the ground. Right now, all eyes are on the girl and the wolf lady, even two pairs of eyes sitting on the ground. It’s just, it’s where you’re supposed to look. They know it, without a word. Just like they know they’re supposed to gasp when they reach the ground, and it’ll be hours before Sam realizes he wasn’t ever worried they were gonna be hurt. There’s dancing in air, and surfing on swords, and great, big, rainbow-colored sparky explosions of water and light, and he didn’t know any of it was coming, but it all felt so, so [i]right[/i] and, and! And he has to meet these people. Right now. “Woolbur, c’mon!” The c’mon is for his own benefit; Woolbur is already off and running. Together they leap through the fields, vault over stone walls, race over bridges, splash headlong through the streams, skid through the grass, plant themselves behind a tree, stare off into the middle distance! “Uh.” “Baa.” “That. Um. They’re sure.” “Baaaaa.” “Very. [i]Kissing.[/i]” “Baa.” Woolbur flicks an ear. “We should. Wait. Over here. ‘Till they’re done.” [i]”Baa!”[/i] “How long d’you suppose..?” Woolbur absently munches at his shoelaces. “Yeah. Yeah we might be here a while...” ************************************************* One while later, the Princesses are greeted by a simple shepherd, nervously wringing his hat in his hands, as a curious little sheep peeks out from behind his legs. Seeing how your highnesses (and why did they look so tickled by that?) just, er, dropped in, would y’all be needing a place to stay? He had a farmhouse, see, and like any good farmhouse, it had plenty of room for any folks needing a place to stay while they helped tended the flocks. And, well, seeing how the seasons weren’t quite turned yet, he’d lots of spare rooms and no one to fill them. He’d be honored if they’d stay with him? Just a little while? And wouldn’t you know it; they’re honored as heck to make his acquaintance, and even more honored to accept his hospitality. That very day, four princesses and a rascally fox - through, really, only one princess, one handmaiden, one Just Yue, one wolf-lady, and a rascally fox - came to stay at a humble shepherd’s farmhouse. He refuses all manner of payment; that those of their station were even helping to cook meals and tend to their own rooms was enough. But as it so happened, they paid him in something far, far more valuable. Y’see, a shepherd is a master of watching. They gotta be, to keep track of thousands of silly fluffheads. They gotta see mischief, before the mischief happens, and before the mischief-maker realizes they’ve been spotted. So that when a sheep decides that, actually, dashing off across the fields to see how tall that mountain over there really is sounds like a wonderful way to spend an afternoon, the shepherd is right there, ready to scoop them up. How did they get over there so sneaky-like, so casually no sheep thought anything of it? How did they know?! These are the secret arts of the shepherd, and there is no turning them off. When secret looks pass between such special houseguests, when someone says they’ve never seen the roots of a rainbow before and their special somebody gasps, how can the shepherd not know? How can he be anywhere, but out by the shed, pretending to work, just in case some folks feel like going off on an adventure? And. Well. How could he keep from following, in case they needed something? If they ever spotted him, he’d say he just had to look after Woolbur, who just so happened to also be there, being very quiet, because if a shepherd had tried to shoo him home he would’ve kicked up such a fuss. But nobody ever spotted him. Day after day, their adventures had two extra guests come along at a safe, respectable distance. Now, between you and me, I think maybe this shepherd wasn’t as clever or as quiet as he thought. For such seasoned explorers, his guests sure did take their sweet time when out for a wander. Never took a hard climb without stopping for a long break afterwards. Never leapt across chasms too wide for sheep and shepherd to cross on their own. Not to mention, there was that one time Hyra of the Wolves kept asking him all sorts of questions of just what he got up to the previous day, and maybe he had to lie a little bit because he was scared they might’ve found out he was there, and she was just. So interested to hear about exactly how one takes sheep out for cross-country swimming practice, and she asked him so nicely to let him show her how it’s done sometime, and kept on smiling with her eyes even as he told her the sheep were too tuckered out and needed a month or two to rest first, terribly sorry, some other time then. But more than that, when his guests returned home, when they got all cleaned up, and had a nice dinner in front of them, and it came time to remember the stories of the day, they wouldn’t stand for making him stand. This little shepherd got to sit at the table, and listen wide-eyed to the people who lived the stories he’d devoured so thoroughly. These weren’t legends, floating as high and out of reach as the Sky Castle. These were people. Real, living people, who ate dinners, loved petting a good sheep, got sleepy, had bad mornings, good nights, and all the other stuff that makes up a life. All the stuff that makes up a life like his. And they welcomed him as an audience. Questions, ideas, everything and anything that entered his silly head, they wanted to hear it. Heck if he had any idea why. But those nights. Ah, those were some of the best nights of his life. Now, I could tell you all about the Trouble of Thunderbuzz Shrine, the Mysterious Case of the Wobblin’ Jelly, the Unspeakable Treachery at the Really Cold Pond, and a hundred other adventures. But we’d be here all month if you had to listen to me tell everything seen and heard, and besides, they ain’t exactly my stories in the first place. I’m just a lucky fella who happened to be in the right place at the right time to see something amazing and beautiful. You want the story proper? I bet you’ll be seeing them show up in one of Princess Chen’s works before too long. If she ever gets tired of painting her precious - oh, not to say that I hope she ever does! Can you imagine what she’ll make her Rosepetal look like in just a year from now? I bet it’ll take your breath away, and, er, where was I? Ahhh. Right. Where my part in the story ends. ************************************************* ‘Cause, it’s gotta end, right? Otherwise, I’d still be there living it, and I wouldn’t be here to tell you all about it. They had themselves a grand send-off of a feast, didn’t they? Sam got to fixing it up, but he must’ve let something slip when he was out shopping for ingredients, because by the time the sun went down we had the whole village there to celebrate. We had music, dancing, calls to show off swordsmanship, magic, painting, baking, so many wonderful things! But the night ended, eventually. It’s always gotta end. Bright and early - well, not [i]too[/i] early, not after a night like that - found Sam and Woolbur walking their guests out the door, down the path to the main road, where the whole village turned up again for the goodbyes. We had hugs, crying, memories to share, promises to visit, blessings, wisdom, so many wonderful things. But the goodbyes ended, eventually. It’s always gotta end. Sam stood there, on the crest of the hill, watching five amazing people walk off into the sunrise. They had more stories to tell. Bigger stories, ones he couldn’t even dream of yet, nor how they’d even begin to get to the other side of them. And as I sit before you, he might’ve made the silliest decision of his life, right there. He might’ve remembered he was a shepherd. He might’ve heard himself, as he said on so many nights, that being a shepherd was a good lot in life, and one he was pretty good at, and so, maybe it was what he ought to keep doing. On that magical morning, he might’ve listened to himself, one more time, and decided to head back home. Which makes Woolbur a genuine hero, for choosing the perfect moment to scamper between his legs and go a-runnin’ off into the sunrise after them. “Woolbur-! Ack!” Even then, he froze. It’s a dangerous business, chasing after little lost sheep. “Get back here! Right now, mister! Right now!” Because if you don’t keep your feet? “Um. Uh. Hey! Folks! Can some of y’all take my share of the flocks? For a bit?!” Who knows where your heart’ll be swept off to? ************************************************* And that’s the end of it. The tale, that is, heard for the first time, by many, of how five princesses and princess-adjacent folks changed a shepherd’s life, just by falling into it. But you all know that a story doesn’t end, just because somebody stops telling it, dontcha? There’s a [i]process[/i] to this. A proper way of doing things. You’ve been kind enough to follow me this far, I wouldn’t dare cheat you out of the end. Our mysteriously cloaked figure nods a sagely nod, and takes a real big sip of his drink; the universal sign that the tale was coming to a close. “Baa, I don’t gotta tell you more, do I? That’s the end of the parts I was there for anyhow. Did you know, people can move awful fast, when they can fly, or surf on their swords, or just plain scamper good? Much faster than a shepherd chasing after a silly old sheep. You all know of everything that happened between then, and when we finally caught up with them. The siege, the battle, the coronations, the parties! Thank goodness we got there in time for those last few. It’d been a long time, see, since we’d last seen them, and me and the Princess had some. Unfinished business.” The hooded cloak falls back from his head. Two sheepy eyes crinkle over a smiling snout, peeking out from beneath a wonderfully wooly head. His hands hug a steaming mug of hot cocoa, so pleased with himself that he can’t help but kick his hoofsies underneath his barstool. “Fortunately, Sunshards make it real easy to speak Sheep.” Woolbur grins. “Man, it’s so hard t’keep a straight face an’ do a mysterious story properly. Thank goodness somebody invented cloaks.” Secret Sword: I Was A Sheep The Whole Time! A technique so tricky, it takes [i]years[/i] to pull off correctly. But when it works? There’s no defense against it. One story becomes another, right before your eyes, and how’re you supposed to withstand that, huh? And to those of you who say you figured me out already? Thanks bunches for not spoiling it, and acting surprised alongside everybody else. I really appreciate it. <3 Anyhow, there I am, a sheep the whole time, and isn’t that ideal for getting us away from the telling part of the story, and into all the bits that come after. Rounds of hearty applause and mugs banging on tables first, of course, but then! But then! Then comes the part where everybody gets involved! Some folks spin off into their little groups, talking about how that story reminds them of a tale of their own, and maybe this time they’ll remember how some sheep bumbled into the tale halfway through. Somebody else decides that it’s time for music, and by golly they’re right, it is time for music! And a whole buncha folks have questions! So many questions! Where’s your shepherd now? Did Princess Chen remember you two? Was it tricky, figuring out what sorta sheep-boy you wanted to be? Actually, [i]could[/i] you tell us about the case of wobblin’ jelly? The biggest question of all comes last. Always does. Cause, it only shows up after everybody else is done. When I’ve finally wound up, alone again, in my little corner of the room, catching my breath after a story well-told. Feeling all cozy-happy, proud as can be of what I’ve done, though not so proud I can’t think of how I might do a little better next time. That’s when my heart asks it, so loud I can’t possibly miss it: “What now?” And. Darnit. Ain’t that the trickiest question of all? I really thought I’d know, by now. Having been on my very own quest and all. That’s all it takes to be an adventurer, right? Going on an adventure? S’not like I gotta get a fancy piece of paper, or have my tale told in so many corners of the world. I’m here. I can do this. Sorta. Kinda. Somewhat. But when I think of the folks who I went chasing after… My journey started after theirs. When I first thought to dance, they’d been at it for years and years and years and years. That’s a fact. I had to run alllllllll the way across more kingdoms than I ever knew existed, just to see Princess Chen again. Just to reach places she’d passed through long ago. That’s also a fact. Now I got a mouth that can talk all fancy-like, a clever little sword all of my own, and hooves made for walking! Y’know what I don’t got? A clue. A sunshard. A princess t’be a handmaiden to. Or, hand…sheep? That’s a job, I know it is. Princess Chen, Rose from the River, Just Yue, Hyra of the Wolves, I’ve learned from so many great people. But it’s all just a mishmash of skills I picked up along the way. I don’t know what I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing with what I got. I don’t have anything to pull it all together into something that feels. Y’know. Complete. Now, y’might say that’s plenty, and I’m just overthinking it. Maybe I am. I sure think I am, anyway. But I’m still thinkin’ it, and I still think it’s important, ‘cause, well, have you ever heard a duel? No, yeah, I know what I said. Duels have words in em too, y’know. Times to pour out your heart, and put your flag down, and say [i]why[/i] you’re even there in the first place. Princess Chen. Rose from the River. Just Yue. Hyra of the Wolves. They got swords, just like me. They do adventures, just like me. S’not fair to compare us, I know, but it’s so frightfully easy to, y’know? Listen to them duel sometime. They got so much to say about dueling. They know duels, like Chen knows Rose, or Yue knows Hyra. They know so much about what they’re doing, or why they’re doing, or what they want to do with what they’re doing. And then there’s me. I wanna love others, sure. I wanna love others by giving them big, good stories. I wanna love others by helping them think about big, incredible things. Those aren’t bad goals or nothing, but, even now, they feel small and half-baked. Not to mention they’re all big, high, fancy goals. What’s that got to do with how I step out the door? What’s that got to do with the duels I’m fighting right now? Barely a thing. Makes it easy to feel like maybe I didn’t ever make it to Princess Chen after all. Maybe I’m still just a little, lost sheep. Flailing around while others are dancing properly. No real destination in sight. No real good I’m doing. I think that’s enough to make anybody confused. Sheep or not. So. What now? Well. You know us sheep. If there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s following our hearts. And mine heard a song, the day I saw those Princesses falling. I chased that song halfway across the world, until I got the chance to play it myself. And when I really sit, and think, I think that I’ve been chasing that song my whole life. Even when I was just a silly little lamb, grazing away at the hillsides, I saw music in the way the grass swayed in the breeze, and the impossible shapes of the clouds above, and the sunlight in my wool, and there was more around me than could ever really be there, and I knew it had to be real. I’d hear the notes, I’d see the ways I might put them together, and oh, it set such a fire in me. I wasn’t a lamb anymore, I was a bundle of fire and dreams in the shape of a lamb, with eyes so, so wide, straining to see the shapes of things too wonderful to touch. So. I can’t be all clueless, right? Cause I know something’s touched my heart. So some part of me’s got to know what I’m chasing. Even if it’s too small or sheepy to put it into words, some part of me’s got to know. And…and I’m lucky enough to have friends who want to hear whatever song I sing. Who want my songs, because they’re mine. Not because they were written by a princess. Because they were written by Woolbur. What now? I dunno. But I don’t need an answer to be loved. Or to love the trip. Now! Now I really oughta let you go, huh? You’ve got princesses to catch up with, tumbling down out of the Sky Castle. I’ve got a shepherd to rescue from some wily fox. (Though I may take my time on that one. In case his heart needs a little more time to sing.) It was great meeting you! I really mean it. Don’t be too sad, now! We may not see each other again here, but of course my story keeps on going. You’ve got a great story of your own to get back to, and you’ll never get there if you keep listening to silly old me. So go on! Shoo! Back to princesses, back to blossoming love, back to a tale of sunshards, and hearts, and crossed swords, and stories like you’ve never seen before! I’ll be right behind you.