Yes, I know, I haven’t been updating for a while now… There’s a siege going on, as you probably noticed. There have been some developments, though, that I feel obliged to share with you out there, all of you; which might even include our not-so-friendly observers in Cull Haven and Lawpolis.
Last week, I got informed that a new guild representative is about to join our little council of the ‘Boroughs. I didn’t think much about it at first. Then I mentioned it to my Highpriest, and he actually went silent for about 10 seconds – which hasn’t happened during the last decade or so. Then he started preaching his excitement for the better part of an hour. To his great grief – still talking about my cheerful Highpriest – he wasn’t allowed to join me when I was blindfolded and escorted. He prepared the shit out of me, however.
The Mappers might represent the oldest craftsmanship in all of Fictionaria. They have been forging collections of maps and atlases for centuries now, which might not seem such a big deal. We have a pretty commonsensical view how our rivers, lakes and mountains hold reign over the continents. That wasn’t always the case. Some time back, those ancient folios were the only reliable source our merchants and adventurers could base their journeys on. Reliable being a factor here, since no two maps were ever exactly the same. The Highpriest told me that no one was allowed to join their ranks who wasn’t inspired enough to produce his own voice through his inscriptions. Every exact copy was considered just that: a copy, a rip-off, a piece of counterfeit. So every new Mapper added some minor detail, maybe an island or two, or the run of a mighty river; improved on a few mountains; or tried to comment on that ongoing discourse about the southern desert. The Mappers were not only charting our lands, they were charting the maps that came before them, conducting a great debate within their pieces of art. And their stories tickled into the fabric of our world, design by design: tales they told each others, ranking from the most trivial of puns to the most epic of sagas. Some say, that’s why our world is called Fictionaria today.
I was expecting to be lead into some maze-like dungeon, steps spiraling out of perspective all around. I was expecting never to get out on my own, should I fail to meet the guild’s expectations. I was expecting some secret fortress no one without a proper Mapper’s Chain had visited in decades. When the blindfold was removed, I stood in front of a beach cabin and was handed quite a pleasant cocktail. I couldn’t tell you where there should be a beachside anywhere remotely close to the mountains surrounding Catherineborough. There just isn’t. But that shouldn’t surprise you by now: The guild made damn sure it’s on no map anyone will ever see.
I can tell you this, though: I met with the High Masters Glober. They were wearing garments in cheerful red and yellow colors, reminding me very much of someone I know. I had no idea why they were going with that title, until I experienced first-hand this wild fancy the High Masters Glober are entertaining: Manufacturing maps on top of round objects: spheres, balls, balloons, orbs, even eggs! –Either they are completely nuts, or they know some trickery fashions of magique! Bending and twisting the way things are…! I instantly asked for a round map of Catherineborough and the Den, which would look really nice in my room – not that they would accept orders anymore.
Whether it is true that the Grand Masters Glober have honed their skills to the degree the Highpriest suspects they have, I cannot say. What I can promise you is this: the Guild of Mappers stands devoted to the cause of the resistance now. And they might just have some ideas of their own, concerning our current state of our border limitations.
So, friendly observers in Cull Haven or Lawpolis: Start earning your paychecks. Denounce this as war propaganda. Call me a liar and brand me a jawsmith. Stop all the whispers. Don’t let them talk out aloud that the ‘Boroughs stand strong as ever. Maybe we won’t just stand, if an advance is always a matter of perspective and directory.
And then take a long, hard look on your maps.
Because they are not fiction.
Right.
Things have been developing so fast, it’s like an aeon has passed. And yet, it hasn’t really been so long, has it? So much has changed. I can hardly remember why I come here to post (although that, of course, is a lie – call it poetic license), but once again, I stumble in through the door. You’re looking at me with unhappy eyes, Baruch – do my wayward ways offend you so much?
Yes, that’s an apt metaphor, isn’t it? Baruch as an uptight defender of the establishment. If the shoe fits… after all, just because it’s not the DUF’s establishment, doesn’t mean it isn’t corrupt through and through. Those bloody memories in ‘Borough are still hiding beneath the service, and who’s to say who they will come for next? Why nobody, of course, nobody but the governing body of guilds. In whose midst sits Baruch like a plump spider, sucking his victims dry. Was this your endgame, then? If so, your doom is apt. Spiders can feel every tremor, but their vision is weak – they’re too shortsighted to graduate from tactics to strategy.
Rise has been on everyone’s lips (and sometimes a little higher, just below their nostrils – best get a handkerchief) lately, and doesn’t it just look grand? The DUF crumbles! The Lawmaker falls! Why not add on even more optimistic fantasies? The King returns! The Gods bless us all personally! Drugs flow like milk and honey forevermore!
I suppose it won’t surprise anyone who reads this on this obscure corner of the ‘net to learn what I think of that.
Newer reports show that there’s a large force, likely DUF, on the move into the mountains. What could be of any interest to the Lawmaker there? Good question, but the presence of magiqual experts in their ranks coupled with the rumors about forgotten orders of monks and lost secrets up in the peaks suggest some tantalizing possibilities. Relatedly or unrelatedly, the Lawmaker himself appears to be even harder to contact these days – what’s keeping him so busy? Of course, that’s not an area I can sniff around in too much – that kind of question has enough of a paygrade to earn me equally expensive hostile attention, and my purse is a little light right now.
Other tidbits that have caught my attention recently – there was an explosion of unclear origin near Rainbow Cliff. Some hard-faced individuals were seen doing the kinds of things those kinds of people do. We can’t be sure what it meant, but communications and investigations started by the DUF shortly afterward indicate one of their interests was compromised. Possibly in connection with this, there was something that the DUF’s people are referring to only as “an incident” at the Cradle, the very center of their power. Why isn’t this higher on my list? Because the noise around it tastes more of confusion than of panic. It’s unlikely to affect the DUF’s strength and operations much, but it makes me wonder.
Too many disparate pieces, not enough adhesive to glue them together. Attacks from Rise on DUF strongholds are numerous and scattered around the map without an apparent care, not for strategy nor for logistics. Without access to the actual DUF reports, it’s hard to tell what’s going on from the outside – are these all of the factions flocking like vultures around what looks like the Bison’s corpse? Or does one group have extraordinary movement and tactical capabilities? Most likely a heady mixture, of course.
And in all this, Baruch makes one of his most explicit statements yet. Borders blur and flow like oil in water, and he presumes to have the deciders on his team. This would have been bolder in the past, when the DUF was still the towering monolith we once knew, but now? It reads more like a consolidation of power. How better to keep your followers on the hook, Baruch, than by feeding them ever more rumors of aggression from outside?
It seems the enemies of the DUF feel comfortable escalating. If I were taking things at face value, so might I. But while the Knights still stand and the Lawmaker still walks, the face of things will continue hiding their true intentions.
The laughter winds infinitely, in recursive cycles. Baruch becomes the author behind that endless tale of the lazy Bison. Suffice it to say that I laughed so hard, I doubt any strip he can create will be able to match it.
For anyone who can’t see the joke: it’s all about a dozing symbol of oppression and simultaneous revolution, who tantalizes with overthrow of the system while at the same time promising its essential continuation. Oh, and a comic that he’s writing.
I’ll return to this – I doubt I’ll be able to stay away, even if I tried. But for now, one only has so long to jot down one’s musings while waiting for the next willing source of information to finally fall asleep so they can’t hear their lock being picked.
As predicted, Baruch’s first comic is a reminder of how much worse the Bison before him was. Your misdirection is growing threadbare, o mighty Jawsmith…
And what do we see now? The little, misguided piglets finally stand up for themselves, demand of the Bison some kind of rules to make coexistence possible! It’s so touching, so heartrending! All the little people are finally being heard! We can be free and live in peace, together with the Bison! And he will surely abide by our rules, will he not? Will he not? Won’t he? Baruch? Baruch…?
Oh Baruch. The swine might not guess where the noxious clouds are coming from, and they might point at that big, stinking Bison because he’s so obvious. But those who keep the wind in their face know better. Telling, is it not, that Baruch’s central thesis here is that it is noble to shackle the beast rather than slay it? All piggies need a Bison to tell them when to start again from the beginning, after all. And when the big ugly beast inevitably breaks the rules, how boar-ing will the tired story of betrayed innocence be?
The children laugh and clap and cheer on the poor, wronged piglets, and the bad Bison is dealt with, and we all learn that a GOOD housemate would have kept to the rules. A GOOD housemate still can. Ignore his horns, and superior size, and the enticing hints of roast pork that his predecessor’s farts cover up, and just listen to him talk earnestly about the rules of living together.
Sleep tight, little piggies. Emulate the Bison and sleep tight. And don’t think too much about what kind of meal causes such a stink…