City of IF

[D-Lotus]

Ok, here goes my story---

This is a storygame; you read, you comment, and then you vote.

Warning- This story could contain graphical ironic statements as well as graphical violence. Reader discretion advised.

PART A-

The cold morning greeted the chilled man. He waited impatiently as the heels of his boots slowly sunk into the mud stained earth. He wore a great black overcoat, shriveling inside it like a turtle in his shell. He checked his dull battered golden watch periodically, grumbling with displeasure every time he did so. Hair billowing in the wind, overcoat knit tight round himself, he sniffled and introduced his cold hands inside his comforting pockets. A light drizzle menaced in the grey sky, and the battered but proud watch began making its small journey from pocket to eye level with more constancy.

The man with the receding hairline was posted, like a sign on the road, near a tavern stretching a mile away. His transportation had been called and was past its due time. What had things come to these days!

A sudden creaking and wheezing of some ancient vehicle made its way along the road cautiously, slowly. As the cries of the stage coach driver became audible over the rumbling of the sky and its impending shower, the disheveled man cleared his throat and with appeased anxiety signaled to the strange components of the horse drawn carriage. The snorting and panting of the horses drew nearer and nearer until the driver reined them, stopping in front of the shivering man. As that man began to speak, the driver sniffed the air in front of him, trying to locate some pestilence or evil.

“I’ve been waiting for-“

The barrel of an old rusty musket confronted him and stopped his speech in mid-sentence. The driver of the coach wagon was clutching the other end of the weapon in his hand. He spoke in a prominent uncultured accent, but at least was not too difficult to understand, and he owned a gruff face; creased, dark, and bushy, the appearance of a fearsome man, the effect significantly enhanced when he held a gun in your face.

“Now wait a minute, fellah. You intending to ride my coach?”

The man shuddered in his black shell, more irritated than anxious.

“Yes, and I-”

The barrel of the musket once again interceded in the drivers favor.

“I’m the guard of this one expedition, and I ain’t going to let any unidaintyfied man mix with my other customers. No, sir, I couldna allow that, could I? To think of my customers over there, mingling with common criminals! Hah!” he laughed ironically.

The man standing on the muddy road spoke impatiently, his irritation apparent, but with a fearful tone.

“I assure you, I-”

He was even about to draw his battered golden watch out, to demonstrate his innocence, when the driver-guard interrupted him once again with a curt question.

“Yer last name Burnwick?”

“Most assuredly!” exclaimed the shriveled man indignantly. The driver then smiled, and a change immediately came over his face. His brows unfurrowed and his jaw unclenched. He leaped down from the carriage and stretched his hand out to the pale man.


“The name’s Stuart, fellah”

As Burnwick held it incredulously and felt its strong and gentle power, a plumed hat followed readily by the jubilant face of a Parisian woman appeared at the window of the coach wagon.

“Monsieur, hurry!” she said in an undoubtable French accent. The head popped back inside before Burnwick could even react, and the driver smiled even more widely than before.

“I’m sorry we had that nasty bit back there, sir, but it couldna been any other way, could it? So many bad people out yonder, sir, ye never know.”

He gently opened the grey carriage door. In fact, the carriage was very much of the bleak color all around. Burnwick tried to smile in the unusual situation, but he was rusty, and his muscles failed to spread his lips and flash his teeth as is so characteristic of a smile. Three others sat inside already, hibernating inside their coats, over coats, scarfs, winter gloves and hats. Burnwick grasped the side of the coach door and with a constrained hop landed on the ledge of the carriage.

It seemed strange, but the carriage was somehow homely. The young woman from Paris with her flagrant blue feathered hat smiled at him; the content and faithful man in the traveling clothes waved at him amiably, and the young man in the felt hat dismissed him arrogantly. Burnwick managed a quick nod towards the two men and an ‘M’am’ towards the lady.

He apologized as he squished himself into the compact wagon. The others murmured quietly and did not speak until the crashing of the whip on the flank of the horses resumed, and the coach wagon began lumbering towards its destination.

The traveler coughed into his napkin.

The trip continued, occasional jerks of the coach pitting them against each other. Without warning, the clouds rumbled and soon the insignificant droplets of water became full sized drops that thundered against the carriage hull and the view of the windows soon grew bleak. They braced themselves for the next turn in the road, and gripped onto whatever they could, the carriage cradling back and forth on its hinges; if it had any. The stumbling mares dodged through the muddy earth and stones and the journey continued in the same unmethodical and inconvenient way.

In one of the sudden overturnings, in which the coach pended and remained in the road through some miracle, Burnwick’s arm shot out to prevent the rest of his burdened self from hitting against the side of the carriage. As he did so, the golden watch had been visible to all. When the carriage and the passengers had returned their normal position, and Burnwick had recovered from his failed attempt, the French girl called his attention to it.

“Monsieur, what time is it?”

Burnwick flashed his battered watch in the air again, proudly, yet proffesionally uninterested.

“Five thirty, M’am.”

The girl, conscious that the conversation she had sought after could not escape her now, extended on her previous remark.

“That is a beautiful watch, Monsieur.”

The old man softened.

“Yes, it is indeed. It has a history behind it.”

The other two men were scrutinizing the conversation, there being no other source of entertainment in the compressed coach.

“Ah, Monsieur, my grand-mere told me many stories when I was a youth...Is that a long story of your watch?”

Burnwick looked down at the bedraggled watch. He remained silent. The other friendly traveler spoke abruptly.

“Perhaps, sir, you could revive the old feelings of nostalgia I, and these two blossoming younglings would greatly appreciate it.”

He smiled as he spoke, encouraging the old man.

“Please, Monsieur!” exclaimed the girl.

Burnwick remained thoughtfully silent before concluding hastily. A tone of sadness dripped from his weary voice.

“No, I’m sorry, my dear.”

He ceased speaking, immediately regaining control of himself, a resourceful, impatient but important business-man. The change occurred almost naturally, for how could a man so composed lapse into abjectness for long? The carriage remained silent again. At last, the young man who had not spoken to the moment, did so. His young nature had driven his curiosity, curiosity of which until that moment had not made much appearance in him, except to dispatch quick looks at the beautiful French girl. He spoke to the traveler.

“Are you much of a storyteller?”

The traveler reclined in his seat. The coach jolted in the air again and the rain drenched all living creatures stationed outside.

“I do have a story of my own that I am appreciative of and cherish. I will depict it for you, even if it only serves to pass the time.”

“Indeed.”

“Shall I begin?” asked the traveler.

“Yes, please begin at once, Monsieur!”

The traveler raised his voice slightly and adopted the tone of an omnicient narrator; august and eminent. The others became attentive as the traveler begun his tale.

“On a clouded day, clouded like the times they live in, two men walk side by side on a grueling journey, five-hundred kilometers long. El camino de Santiago. A holy pilgrimage reaching from the Pyrenees of southern France and across the arid Spanish plains, a pilgrimage with centuries of antiquity and religious fervor.

Finally, as the unending golden fields recede into the dew sprinkled green grass that showers northern Spain with grace, the destination seems closer, and grants hope to the hopeless. Santiago de Compostela. One of the greatest and most culturally diverse cities in Spain. Its great imposing cathedral, towers of gold and ivory silently observe the weary pilgrims from high above with tranquility, enforced through its quiet dignity and the strong foundations of love.

A city reserved not only for the rich aristocrats, but for the faithful, in times when the rich were the faithful, as long as they could pay the church to mantain themselves so, and hate merged to become one with the human heart. In times where the peasants of France were treated like dogs, and the looming shadow of La Guillotine lingered in anticipation of the slaughter to come.

Five hundred miles, every pilgrim traveling with one wish in mind every step of the way, guarding it in the recesses of their heart; a wish known only to themselves and their Lord, a wish to come true as long as they remained faithful every cruel step of the harsh demanding road ahead.

The two men walked, side by side, glancing resentfully at one another. They were guarding a well known secret. They hated each other. But it was a holy trail they were trudging through, and it demanded the friendship and tolerance of both, as well as the companionship throughout it. They walked the same way with the same demeanor and pace, slept on the same ground, shared their food and waited for each other on the dusty roads. The hate harbored in them was a sullen one; it was the hate between two brothers, torn apart by gentle nudging and furious pushing of their respective wives for a dubious mistake that the One or the Other committed in the past.

So they walked on, their eyes never crossing, never interchanging a look that could and would resolve all wrongs. Always resolute, always stubborn. Always and never, they trudged on through the beautifully rustic Spanish countryside.

“D’ye have some water, brother?” said the One in a strained voice.

“Yeh, I have some water, brother. D’ye want it?” said the Other, tones full of contempt ringing in his deep voice.

And again they resumed their journey, stopping and speaking to each other with diminishing frequency. The miles wore on, the passing golden hues turned into fragrant flowers sprouting among dark green grass on the winding hills of Galicia, the region where Santiago resides.

Feet bleeding, heads bowed, legs trembling, they walked the last few miles of the way. A steep hill blocked their way. The two set up, using their last energy to reach the top. They struggled alone, seeking the top, but soon the brothers were spent, their will gone. And then, in the middle of the hill, their looks crossed; this time the look of hunger, pain and need in both their eyes shone like stars in the dark sky.

One stretched his hand out slowly, trembling, to the Other, and the Other took the hand of the One, lovingly, with gentle care. Then they got up together, supporting their weight on each other, and ascended in blissful peace up the hill; hill that had seemed mountain when on their own, but their unity had strengthened them, and now they saw the hill slowly flattening out.

Finally the hill ended in a flat ledge over viewing the valley below. The tall towers of Santiago stared back at them, houses forming loops of roofs around the imposing cathedral like a giant red swirl. The farmland around the city mingled with the bright valley to create an uncontrollable impression of receding colors.

The two men turned their heads from the spectacle and towards each other. Then they cried, embracing, realizing that the real wish they had harbored unknown for so long, had been fulfilled in this journey. Two men rising beyond hate in hateful times had been finally restored to life on one road. El Camino de Santiago.”

The traveler finished, pleased at the looks of interest written over the listeners’ faces. The French girl beamed in her blue dress, and as she did, a look of interest far surpassing the one he had wore while listening to the story sketched itself on the young man’s features.

“Ah, Monsieur, that was a beautiful story.”

“It was only a meager and dim narrative compared to others, I am sure.” said the traveler humbly.

“Monsieur, it was beautiful. Ah, but I just remembered an old tale my Grand-mere told me in Paris as a little girl! Would you like to hear?”

The group nodded, the young man with added fervor. The whip and the driver screamed at the horses as one, rain dropping and thudding against the window.

Yes, I know, there's no decision point... but that's because its only half a chapter. The next chapter will be out after I get my own forum, and with it the decision point. This chapter is just to prove my good faith. Just comment on what you think and tell me ANYTHING that seems wrong to you.

[Chinaren]

Interesting! Quite a nice 'atmosphere' the story has it does.

A few small comments, since you asked, and they aren't really corrections but suggestions...

A light drizzle menaced in the grey sky, and the battered but proud watch began making its small journey from pocket to eye level with more constancy

I think frequency would be a better word here.

unidaintyfied = unidentified? Or is it an 'accent'?

There are a few others, but I don't think they are really worth a mention.

Nicely begun! I await the next episode, or the section of this episode with an interested air. ;)

[Guest]

Yes, that WAS an accent. :D I'll corect the rest. Thanks for the compliments as well.

D-Lotus.

[Smee]

Looks pretty good to me D,

Now you just need to win the auction. :D

[Shady Stoat]

Intriguing!

It reminds me of the Canterbury Tales - only a lot more understandable :D

Keep it going and good luck on the forum auction! :-)

[ethereal_fauna]

Enjoyable and attention grabbing. I anticipate a decision point whether you get your own forum or not. :cool:

[D-Lotus]

Thanks! I almost have the next chapter finished, and as you guys said...I only need to win the auction now...*looks at Smee menacingly*.... :D

[The Powers That Be]

Very nice, D. I look forward to the rest of the chapter, wherever it lands. :)

[D-Lotus]

I hope these are sincere answers, not just going through protocol..?

[The Powers That Be]

D-Lotus wrote: I hope these are sincere answers, not just going through protocol..?

I hope these are sincere questions, not just D trying to rack up Fables for the auction. :D

To answer your question, no, I generally don't bother responding at all to stories I don't care for.

[Smee]

LOL - great comeback Powers.

I'm considering a bid of 1600 for the auction just for his cheek. :shock:

[The Powers That Be]

Smee wrote: LOL - great comeback Powers.

I'm considering a bid of 1600 for the auction just for his cheek. :shock:

Oh bah, Smee, you're worse than he is.

The number of content-free responses to storygames has gone up markedly in the last few days, I've noticed. Just one of the results for Key to jot down in his lab notebook.

[Hyperion]

Due to my patronage, Chinaren is now in front in the rat race. By the way, Powers, if you don't post in my new storygame, I will REND YOU.

[ethereal_fauna]

The Powers That Be wrote: Smee wrote: LOL - great comeback Powers.

I'm considering a bid of 1600 for the auction just for his cheek. :shock:

Oh bah, Smee, you're worse than he is.

The number of content-free responses to storygames has gone up markedly in the last few days, I've noticed. Just one of the results for Key to jot down in his lab notebook.
But just look at how much fun we're having. :cool:

[Hyperion]

Poor me. No one has posted in my new SG for AGES... :(

[D-Lotus]

You have a storygame?? :shock:

And how does Smee go from 1700 fables to 2600 fables in 1 day??? :shock: :shock: :shock: :shock: :shock: hacker

You're right, I am trying to rack up fables...but only to win the auction, after that I want no nore. I mean, its not like you can use fables for anything else. :)

[Smee]

Quote: And how does Smee go from 1700 fables to 2600 fables in 1 day???

I have my ways. :D


Happy Writing. :)

[Chinaren]

Smee wrote: Quote: And how does Smee go from 1700 fables to 2600 fables in 1 day???
I have my ways. :D


..and back down again! :D

[Guest]

I need to learn the secret.

It seems that I won't get my forum after all... :(

[D-Lotus]

That was me. By the way, regardless of wether I win or not, next chapter will be out soon.

[Smee]

Good :)

[Hyperion]

What is your definition of "soon"? *Hyperion hopes to catch him between a forum and a tough deadline... :lol: *

[D-Lotus]

That was a VERY interesting reply. Ok, chapter is lagging due to soccer tryouts, sorry.

[evilhomer28]

hurryup dangnammit! :lol:

[D-Lotus]

Sorry, 'real life' is taking some time away, but don't worry, I'll be done soon. :D