Chronicles of Adair: The Search for Scheherazade

Now that I was in the right place, all I needed was for it to be the right time. Scheherazade’s face was literally plastered on the walls, after all, and translations of One Thousand and One Nights lay scattered across the tables in this little oasis. There was even a nice fire going.

But that was three hours ago. Now it’s well past midnight, and these scrolls are getting awfully heavy. Maybe I’ll set them down for a bit…

Chronicles of Adair: Don’t Shoot the Messenger

As the Faire enters its final days, celebrations have reached a feverish pitch. Lindens were jailed—and then bailed, wootberry juice was poured and consumed in quantities three times the daily value recommended by leading Dinkie medics, The Tale of the Three Apples was read aloud in lurid detail, and an epic battle between Chaos and Order erupted in a beam of light. Faire festivities are far from over, however. For one, a certain infamous penguin commits nightly vehicular homicide. It is on one such night that we spy a new—yet oddly familiar—face.

Oh dear. You seem to have caught me with my pants down, so to speak. Wait, they’re not actually down, are they? Good. You can never tell with these side-cut pants—or hakama, whatever they’re called. Sakka Flow told me that ninjas wear them, but I can’t imagine how someone could skulk around in the shadows when they’re one misstep away from mooning the world.

The Sand and Heat we Love

Feet sink in the sand,
Well traveled,
Continuing forth,
Searching.

A hidden Oasis,
Lush with trees,
Growing forth,
Waiting.

Blurred horizons are the view,
Dangers untold,
Shimmering forth,
Glaring.

 

Voices on the wind,
Almost discernible,
Stretching forth,
Whispering.

The dunes roll,
As the winds play,
Shifting forth,
Forming.

Still we come,
Through this place,
Setting forth,
Adventuring.

Original Poem by Helena Stringer, inspired by the faireland sim, the Drifts of Anamnesis.