shall_yield_us

Well, now, my naked Emperors, you've all worn sheer cloth very well under one night's spell. The one excepted. That calls for no words, though maybe swords, and hands to use them.

But above and beyond that -

♦ the best healer to walk this land, or crawl on it, or limp, or run, or bite or kill however much it takes to earn his keep on it. I've a pet to mend, the wretched thing broke.

♦ the finest smith here, Midas touch perhaps in tow.

♦ the noble commander of our men of law - for all that this is a lawless wasteland, hmmmm...? Charon, Charon, you took my silver and ferried to a wasteland, you liar, you trickster, you thief.

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I don't suppose there's a kind and noble and most courageous soul to play the messenger and survive the task? A hero. I'll take a hero as my courier. It's only a trifle to deliver in my name, of course, for better or worse and so... pretty... please?

Why, I'll bribe you for it with a tale of... sorts. Your kind put it in wind and words, you ought to enjoy it. There was once an Emperor, ever so quaint, the consummate gentleman. They found a nightingale, well - stole it, but being courtiers, well, who'd give them their no? And the bird sang well, if only when it cared to. A creature of whims. Since our gentleman loved it, and everyone wished his favour, a musician-no-scientist-no-madman made him one new, from gold and gems and glitter and beauty. A music box, sculpted as a bird, one that played the single tune, for all its winding. But a tune it played well, one the human ear had made, one men could sing with it.

The true nightingale fled, possibly in disgust, likely for poor feeding, and the Emperor stayed with his metal forgery.

....until he came to sickness, mind, terrible, terrible thing, disease, got under his skin and lurked in his mind. All his wise men left him to die, and his music box could hardly play with no one to wind it for him. He begged it. And begged and begged and begged and begged some more, but no succor. Then Death arrived and took his raiment and called for him to come, and suddenly, our abandoned liege hadn't but choice to answer.

And then his true nightingale of flesh and blood returned to his window, singing. It gave Death the name of a trade for the man's life: a song for each of his belongings. And so, Death said --


...oh, I forget. Something. Death always says something. Except here, it would seem, where Death's perfectly and utterly and obscenely silent, and maybe still. Did it... kill Death? That Ticking Thing they call a clock? Hmmmm. The nerve of it. What else will that tyrant do?

This little fool carried madness' brands
This fool was Narcissus of lore
This little fool saw blood on her hands
And this last fool cared for more