The Garatron Chronicles

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Re: The Garatron Chronicles

Post by Ben_Dover » Sun Apr 25, 2010 12:43 am

Fantastic! Keep it up.
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Re: The Garatron Chronicles

Post by Qoheleth » Wed Jul 07, 2010 6:49 am

Chapter 7

Needless to say, I rested very little for the next three days. Even had I not tended, of my own right, to think incessantly of Shisken's promised revelation, it would have been forced on my thoughts by the questions of the other Selicarites. It is difficult to keep a secret in a small colony of inquisitive juveniles, and I rather doubt that Shisken and Berel (or, for that matter, Limilt) were trying particularly hard. By the morning after our conference on the ridge, every youth in the Refuge seemed to know that some tremendous event was expected in three days' time – and they all wanted me to tell them what it was. They seemed quite unable to believe that I did not know; indeed, one young female named Nannashee-Kopimil-Algoit said to me, with every appearance of seriousness, <But you are the Master of Selicar. There is nothing that you do not know.>

Such confidence in my wisdom was gratifying, but I could not share it. I knew there were many things of which I was ignorant – including some things that I longed desperately to know. What was this "home" that Shisken proposed to take Kirinar to? How could it substitute for the home she had lost? And how, in any event, could she be taken to it when all the powers of the Andalite government were arrayed to keep her imprisoned in the Selicar Refuge?

For the Selicar was a prison. I saw that now. No matter that it spanned ten thousand acres; no matter that there were no guards patrolling its borders. It was a place of confinement for those who could not be permitted to walk among Andalites. That made it a prison.

This distressed me greatly. The Selicar was the only home I had ever known; if it were in truth a thing noxious to the sentient spirit, then I was as much a homeless refugee as Kirinar was. I mentioned this to her at one point during the second day of waiting, and she merely smiled and said, <Well, then, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer, perhaps Shisken's secret home may be yours as well as mine.>

This, of course, only made me desire the more fervently to see what Shisken had planned. I slept not at all on the second night, and, during the third day, my humors were so agitated that even the sound of a morrimil running past was enough to set my hearts racing. Had Shisken made me wait a fourth day, I believe I might have gone mad.

As it was, I bolted for the western hill as soon as the sun had set, and traversed a full third of the Selicar's length in a mere quarter of an hour – which, though it seems a small matter to me now, was at that time quite an achievement for me. When I reached the hill, I was breathing heavily, and my fur was in great disarray – which greatly amused Shisken, who was leaning against a towreath tree at the top of the hill. <Well, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer,> she said, <has a sharbat been chasing you, or were you simply afraid that I would forget about our meeting and go off to practice the Orniya Quest with Kirinar?>

<What is it you wished to show me?> I said, ignoring her badinage.

<Oh, it has not arrived yet,> said Shisken blithely. <Come, and let us contemplate the universe while we wait.>

Accordingly, we ascended the hill (not an arduous task, despite its height) and looked upon the night sky from as near as a Selicarite could come. The Great Moon had risen for the first time that month, but two other moons had set in the meantime, so the carpet of stars that Andalite poets have so often praised was visible to us in all its splendor. The two of us gazed up into infinity, and a million remote suns gazed back at us.

<I used to dislike two-moon nights,> Shisken commented quietly. <One feels so small against the universe, and I have never liked feeling small.> There was irony in her tone, and the two of us exchanged a glance of mutual understanding.

<But I don't seem to mind tonight,> she said. <Tonight it makes me think, not of my own smallness, but of the smallness of everything. Your grandfather is small. Governor Haithul is small. The Selicar Refuge, the Southernmost Island, the Planetary Republic: they are all small on a two-moon night.>

I shifted my hooves uneasily. <Shisken,> I said, <if you mean to console me with the insignificance of my troubles, I fear you will have little success. The injustice of Kirinar's predicament may be of no interest to the Kafit's-Eye Nebula, but it is none the less significant to me for all that.>

I had feared that I might offend her by speaking thus, but she took no umbrage at my words. To the contrary, she laughed. <Ah, Garatron,> she said. <It seems we are fated never to understand each other.>

<What will you?> said a new voice. <He is the child of scientists. Your thoughts are too subtle for his direct, factual mind.> I turned around and saw Berel standing behind us, his eyes aglow with an excitement that I had never seen in them before.

I frowned. <Is Berel also to be shown your secret tonight, Shisken?>

<Berel already knows,> she said. <He was with me when your grandfather relayed my father's message; since the council of three nights ago, we have discussed the subject at length.>

<I see,> I said. <And what is your opinion, Berel-Thorondor-Suparit? Will what I am about to see solve Kirinar's dilemma?>

Berel smiled strangely. <Is Kirinar truly the one who has the dilemma, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer?> he said.

I sighed. <Berel, please do not be coy with me,> I said. <Will Shisken's secret provide a means of freeing Kirinar from her exile?>

Berel considered. <Let us say that it will provide the opportunity,> he said. <Securing the means, I think, will be your task.>

And, having delivered himself of that enigmatic pronouncement, he turned the conversation to other subjects, drifting aimlessly from the beauty of the Kneeling Widow constellation to the concern of a certain Selicarite for her sickly twin sister, and from there to a speculation on the ritual infanticide of the Voiceless People. I listened to him without real interest for perhaps twenty minutes, until I felt Shisken touch my arm. <Garatron,> she whispered, her thought-speak tense with sudden, subdued excitement, <turn your eyes to the northeast.>

I did so, and saw a speck of light rising into the sky somewhere beyond the river Kra. It seemed to be perhaps a thousand miles off, and I was surprised I could discern its purple gleam so clearly. I said as much, and asked whether it was some sort of weapon.

<No,> said Shisken. <It is the vessel through which Falkrith-Ispadagar-Konin and two of his associates will travel into low homeworld orbit. From a technical standpoint, there is no reason for it to bear a million-candela beacon – but Scholar Falkrith has attached one to it anyway, for he wishes all the Northern Continent to observe his journey tonight.>

<Falkrith?> I said. <That is the scientist who...> I hesitated.

<Who made us what we are,> said Shisken. <Yes. Now hush, Garatron, and observe.>

So the three of us watched the purple light climb slowly into the sky until it was perhaps a finger's width above the horizon, just below the rear hoof of the Kneeling Widow. Then its ascent ceased, and it hovered motionless in the sky for perhaps half a minute – and then, to my bewilderment, it vanished completely. There was no flicker, no apparent movement; it simply ceased to exist.

I turned to Shisken, my eyes wide. <Did something go wrong?> I said.

<Nothing whatsoever,> said Shisken with a smile.

<But then...>

<Look into the Furlet's eye, Garatron.>

Baffled, I turned my gaze to the constellation she had named (which necessitated a rather uncomfortable craning of my neck, for the Furlet, at that time of year, was very nearly directly above the Selicar Refuge), and saw a violet light gleaming to the right of the star Hallameth. It couldn't, of course, be what I thought it was; there was no way for a vessel to travel such a distance in the blink of an eye – but, all the same, it certainly seemed...

I turned to Shisken, and she answered the question before I asked it. <Yes,> she said. <That is Scholar Falkrith's vessel.>

<But how...> I began – and then I realized. <Z-space?>

<Precisely,> said Berel. <Tonight, for the first time in history, an Andalite has traveled through the singularity in the universal cone.> He looked at me, and added, <Falkrith's experiments began with the creation of a distorted sub-race that belonged nowhere on this world. It has now ended by making all the other worlds in the galaxy accessible.>

With a sudden shock, I saw what he meant – but it was too much to take in all at once. Yet Shisken and Berel both looked at me as though they expected me to pass some judgment on what we had just seen.

<This has been a solemn night, then,> I managed at last. <And the morning, when it comes, will be a solemn one as well: the first morning of a new age. Let us return to our scoop, and prepare to greet it with all the energy and clearness of mind that such an event merits – for I suspect that it will merit all that we can give.>

Shisken's eyes flashed with amusement at my rather obvious evasion, but Berel seemed to think that I had spoken great wisdom. <It will, indeed,> he said.

As we descended the hill, I raised my eyes and cast another look at the panorama of stars. Might our destiny indeed lie beneath one of them? And, if so, what sort of destiny was it liable to be?

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Re: The Garatron Chronicles

Post by BeyondtheEllimist » Wed Jul 07, 2010 2:12 pm

Very good. Glad to see that you finally updated.
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Re: The Garatron Chronicles

Post by Luna May » Wed Jul 07, 2010 6:39 pm

Yay, an update! 8D

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Re: The Garatron Chronicles

Post by Qoheleth » Wed Sep 15, 2010 8:59 am

Oh, yes, I knew about that. That's why I took the precaution of having Ax refer, back in the first prologue, to "the Andalite year -14.7". The calendar modern Andalites use isn't the calendar the characters in this story are using - because modern Andalites date their calendar from their first manned Z-space flight, the one that just took place in the last chapter. (Or possibly from another event that will occur a few chapters from now; I haven't quite decided yet.)

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Re: The Garatron Chronicles

Post by Qoheleth » Thu Nov 18, 2010 8:57 pm

Chapter 8

Limilt and Kirinar were, of course, informed of the great secret as soon as they woke the next morning. The reactions of both were similar: at first, their eyes lit up with wonder and fierce joy; then, upon reflection, their faces became troubled, and, when they spoke, it was to express their doubts about the plan.

The joy surprised me in neither case. Limilt was a poet's son, and the notion of dwelling among the stars is almost the essence of poetry embodied. As for Kirinar, I had no need to learn about the Orniya Quest to know in what mystic regard Green Andalites held the stars. The Andalites of the Mainland form their constellations (with a few exceptions, such as the Kneeling Widow) into shapes taken from nature – animals, plants, and features of landscapes; on the Southernmost Island, in contrast, they have peopled the night sky with the figures of great heroes, whom they say the Bodiless Powers have placed there as a reward for their magnificent virtues. To tread the plains where such mighty ones dwell could not but be an enticing prospect to a young elder's daughter.

Their doubts were another matter. Kirinar was the first to speak. <This is a great thing you tell us, Shisken,> she said, <but I fail to see how it solves my difficulty. Do you suggest that, somewhere among the stars, there is a replica of the Southernmost Island that the Mainland has never conquered?>

<Who can say what lies among the stars?> said Shisken. <The point is that something must – and, whatever it is, it is more truly our country than anywhere on this world. Here, we are exiles and outcasts; there, we may be explorers and colonists.>

<But I have no wish to be an explorer or a colonist,> said Kirinar, with a slight quiver in her thought-speak. <The only place I wish to dwell is the country where I was born. How can Scholar Falkrith's vessel deliver that to me?>

It seemed that Shisken did not know the answer to that question. She fell silent and kicked at the ground with her hoof, as was her habit when frustrated by her own inarticulateness. I, however, hearing the distress in Kirinar's voice, could not restrain myself from speaking.

<Kirinar,> I said, <is there nothing, short of a restoration of your childhood's surroundings, that can bring you happiness?>

Kirinar turned to me, and I thought my hearts would break as her pain-filled eyes met mine. <How can I explain to you, Garatron?> she said. <The Southernmost Island is not merely a region; it is a promise. On my first birthday, I was bound to the soil of the Island in a ceremony I am not permitted to describe; from that day until the day of my exile, every breath I took was a covenantal act, deepening and strengthening my bond with the land of my ancestors. The grass, the trees, the rivers, the very stars in the sky, all served to remind me of what I was, and what was commanded of me.>

<But –> I began.

Kirinar raised her hand. <I know. You are going to tell me that there is nothing about the grass, rivers, and stars of the Southernmost Island that differs substantially from the grass, rivers, and stars of the Mainland. And I cannot explain, because I cannot cease to see the difference long enough to make you see it yourself.

<But look at this stone,> she continued, kneeling down and picking up a quartzite rock from off the ground. <To you, there is nothing special about it; it is merely one of many stones that litter the floor of the Selicar. But suppose you were told that your grandmother had received this stone as a wedding token; would you willingly let it be lost among the till piles?>

I considered that. <I see,> I said. <And the Southernmost Island is your own grandmother's wedding token; is that it?>

<The Southernmost Island is the setting of my people's history,> said Kirinar. <Even if I have been taken from it, I dare not abandon it, lest I abandon myself as well.>

<But, Kirinar,> Shisken broke in, <if we of the Selicar are, as Berel suggests, a people unto ourselves, then the worlds we discover will be the setting of our own history. Does that not at least partially compensate for having lost the Island?>

<I have addressed that already, Shisken,> said Kirinar wearily. <The four of you may be part of a separate, non-Andalite race. I am not. My people did not reject me; they were simply robbed of me.>

<It comes to the same thing,> said Shisken impatiently.

<No, Shisken, it does not,> said Kirinar. <I have not ceased to be one of the People. Therefore, I have not ceased to be an Andalite.>

<Perhaps not,> I said. <But you have become one of us.>

There was a moment's silence.

<Or am I too precipitous?> I said. <If so, forgive me. But I had hoped…>

I could not finish. What had I hoped? That Kirinar had, after all, found a home in the Selicar Refuge? That she had come to identify herself with a group of misborn Mainlanders to the extent that she would follow wherever they led? Or perhaps – fool, Garatron, you utter, abysmal fool – that her destiny might be intertwined with mine, as the leaves of an alaksha? Better to absorb a poisonous rucap nut than to say such things to her.

<I had hoped that you might be our friend,> was all I could think to say. The words had no sooner escaped me than I wished not to have spoken them; they sounded so bitter, so petty, compared to what I had desired to say.

But Kirinar seemed not to hear this – or, if she did, there was no trace of it in her reply. <And I am, Garatron,> she said earnestly. <Truly, I am. It would be inexcusable in me not to be, after the kindness the four of you have shown me. And I confess that I would indeed rather sojourn on unknown worlds than spend the rest of my life in the Selicar Refuge.

<But I beg of you, Garatron, if I on my part have in any way earned your friendship: do not require me to oppose my love for you to my love of my people. I cannot say which would prevail, but I know that neither would be the better for the conflict.>

There was little I could say after that. A silence fell on our gathering, broken only when Limilt, who had been pacing in thoughtful silence behind me all the while, stepped forward. <Well, then,> he said, <if you have quite finished torturing an innocent maiden with hypothetical dilemmas, perhaps we can address a rather more practical matter.>

I sighed, and turned to him. <What do you mean, Limilt?>

<I am referring to the problem of getting our hands on Scholar Falkrith's vessel,> said Limilt. <So far as I can see, we have two alternatives: we can either petition the Council to give it to us, or we can seize it by force. As to the former, I hardly think that a Council that refuses even to return a stolen juvenile to her homeland will be at all likely to turn the most expensive and revolutionary piece of technology in history over to her and her friends, no matter how eloquently Berel pleads the justice of our cause. As to the latter, how are five dozen undersized juveniles without tail-blades supposed to seize a starship from several hundred fully tailed Andalite adults?>

The question was a fair one. In retrospect, it rather surprises me that neither Shisken nor I had considered it before; perhaps we were deliberately avoiding it. Certainly, Limilt's calm assessment that we might have to seize the vessel by force unnerved me; I had not, till then, envisioned our quest for liberty as involving violence.

Still, the question, having been raised, needed answering. I considered. <Is there any way we can overcome their advantage of force? Are there any substitutes for tail-blades?>

<Many,> said Limilt. <There are the tusks of the sharbat, the coils of the uliarth, the toxic projectiles with which the reesi-al brings down its prey. Sadly, however, when nature deprived us of our tail-blades, it failed to provide us with any of these substitutes.>

Kirinar laughed. <If only you had the Stone of Sadellun,> she commented. <Then you could charm all the beasts you needed into serving as your foot soldiers.> She held up the rock in her hand, and began to declaim in the tone that I had heard her use when she told me the story of her life. <"Forward, legions of sky and marshland! Forward, warriors feathered and scaled! Saprec's son holds your hearts in his hand; defend him, who grasps the artifact of your wildness!">

Limilt glanced at her bemusedly. <Yes, that would doubtless solve a great many of our problems,> he agreed. <In the meantime, has anyone anything non-mythological to suggest?>

<We might be able to infiltrate the launch site unobserved…> Shisken suggested vaguely.

<No,> I said. <The region from which Falkrith's ship took off last night is the most wide-open grassland on the Northern Continent. The most slipshod Andalite security could not fail to notice us advancing on it – and I very much doubt that the security surrounding so revolutionary an invention will be at all slipshod.>

<There must be some way,> Shisken insisted. <The sentient mind, properly applied, can overcome all obstacles. Isn't that what we were always taught?>

<Not precisely,> said Limilt. <We were taught that, if a solution to a problem exists, it is the glory of the sentient mind that it can find it. But, if the problem of its very nature admits of no solution, the sentient mind is only glorious if it is willing to recognize that fact. Only a fool attempts to square the circle, and only a fool attempts to fight without weapons. And the essence of our problem is that we have no weapons.>

That seemed to summarize the matter to a nicety. No further words were spoken for some minutes; the silence was broken only by a sad laugh from Kirinar. <Well,> she said, <I see I shall have to acclimate myself to life in the Selicar after all. Well, doubtless there are worse fates.>

She cast a brief, winsome look up at the sky; perhaps she was bidding farewell to the infinite horizons that she had been so briefly offered. Then, with a gesture of stoic renunciation, she tossed aside the stone that she had been holding.

Too hard, perhaps. Instead of dropping unceremoniously to the ground, the way I believe she had intended, it tumbled through the air at a 60° angle and struck Limilt squarely on the right foreshin.

Limilt cried out in pain, and Kirinar started. <Oh!> she exclaimed. <Oh, Limilt, forgive me! My eye-hand coordination has always been wretched; I assure you, I didn't mean…>

But Limilt did not seem to be listening to her. He was staring at the commonplace lump of quartzite as though he had never seen such a wonder before; then, abruptly, he reached down, picked it up, and then threw it deliberately at his shin again, with twice the force that Kirinar had used.

<Limilt!> I exclaimed. <In the name of all the Powers, what are you doing?>

<He's gone mad,> said Shisken. <I knew it would happen eventually.>

Limilt raised his head and looked at her. His eyes were watering with pain, but there was a gleam in them that I had never seen before. <On the contrary, Shisken,> he said. <I was mad hitherto – or deluded, at least. I believe I owe you an apology; you were perfectly right in insisting that our dilemma was soluble by sentient ingenuity.>

<What do you mean?> said Shisken uncertainly.

<I said that we could not prevail over the Andalites because they bear weapons, and we do not,> said Limilt. <What I failed to consider was that a weapon need not be inborn. A weapon is simply a tool that is used to cause injury; if Andalites happen to bear theirs on their tails, that is no reason why we cannot carry ours in our hands.> He held up Kirinar's rock. <When Kirinar threw this and hit me, it was merely an accident. But then I threw it at myself, and it became a weapon.>

He looked into our staring faces one by one. <Do you not see? This is our equivalency with the Andalites. No, more: this is our advantage over the Andalites. The Andalites know nothing of this; because their tails are such effective weapons, they have never bothered to learn other ways of inflicting injury. It would never occur to them that one might wound or even kill an enemy without being anywhere near him – that a small force, equipped with the proper sort of tools, could lay an entire army low without ever getting within tail-blade range. That is our secret, and ours alone.>

<One moment, Limilt,> I broke in. <You are not suggesting, surely, that we are going to seize Scholar Falkrith's vessel by throwing rocks at the guards?>

<Of course not,> said Limilt easily.

That reassured me. I knew how frenzied Limilt was capable of getting once an idea was in his head; it was good to know that he was still willing to be rational about this one.

<We will throw tail-blades.>

My reassurance vanished.

War-Prince Arleal-Breeyar-Fangor

Re: The Garatron Chronicles

Post by War-Prince Arleal-Breeyar-Fangor » Sun Dec 05, 2010 7:50 pm

Oh No!!
I've just gotten myself addicted to ANOTHER incomplete Animorph Fan-Fic.
I really enjoy this, and think it should be included, if possible, into the Neomorphs series.
I cannot wait to read the rest of this book, and any other book written by you!


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Re: The Garatron Chronicles

Post by sharpie » Wed Dec 08, 2010 9:21 pm

This is a great story. I love all the details, especially the footnotes. I hope you keep writing!

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Re: The Garatron Chronicles

Post by Qoheleth » Fri Apr 01, 2011 8:27 am

Chapter 9

I had thought, at first, that Limilt's comment about throwing tail-blades at the Andalites might be merely one of his attempts at humor; it certainly fit the pattern of willful absurdity. It seemed, though, that he was perfectly serious. To demonstrate, he led us halfway across the Refuge, to one of the largest of the northeastern till piles, and then knelt down and began digging through the rocks.

<What are you looking for?> said Kirinar.

Limilt, never one to explain himself until he was ready, ignored her. <There must be some here,> he murmured. <I know there are deposits in the Sub-Polar Islands; when the glaciers traveled south, they must have brought some… ah, here.> And he held up a jagged, gray-brown pebble.

I stared at it. <Chert?>

Limilt nodded. <I knew an old sculptor once who swore by it,> he said. <She specialized in clay busts of prominent Andalites, and she had a large array of chert tools that she used to carve the fine detail into the faces. You see, one can hardly use a tail-blade for that kind of work – unless one is a contortionist, that is – and chert has the advantage of being able to duplicate a tail-blade's sharpness quite nicely.>

The four of us glanced at each other as his implications sunk in. <You mean,> said Kirinar slowly, <that we could shape these stones into artificial tail-blades and… and launch them at the other Andalites from a great distance?>

<Why not?> said Limilt.

<But this is absurd,> I said. <Even the strongest of Andalites could only throw a stone a few hundred yards; we would be lucky to send it ten. If you were proposing a game of Impale-the-Morrimil, it might do well enough; as a plan of attack against a heavily defended Andalite base, it's sheer madness.>

Limilt hesitated. <You think so?>

<I'm quite certain of it.>

<Hmm.> Limilt kicked at the grass thoughtfully for a minute or two. <Well, I suppose that spoils my idea, then. If only there was some way of propelling an object a great distance without having to rely on one's arm muscles…>

I chuckled. <Like the jets on space-exploration vessels, you mean? No, I hardly think that attaching rockets to chert blades would be practical – and, in any event, none of us have the technical expertise to build them. The only thing I can think of that could even theoretically work would be some exploitation of tensile force.>

Limilt glanced at me with interest. <Tensile force?>

<You must be familiar with it,> I said. <Every physics tutor in the world uses it as an example of stored energy. You take a cord of some kind and stretch it taut across a wooden frame; then you take a small rod with a notch in the end and slip it onto the string, and then draw the string back until…>

<Ah, yes, I remember,> said Limilt with a laugh. <And then you release the string, the rod flies through the air and breaks your stepfather's newest piece of glass sculpture, and your mother confines you to the scoop for the next century.>


Limilt nodded. <Yes, I can see how that would work,> he said. <The rods could be tipped with chert to make them into blades – yes, it could work quite well. It's only a pity that we don't have the necessary materials to make the cord.>

<But we do,> I said. <There are chikinee plants growing throughout the Refuge; extracting the fiber from them would be a simple enough matter for…>

I trailed off, realizing the trap that Limilt had laid for me. But it was too late; triumph was gleaming in the little humorist's eyes. <Well,> he said, <it seems there is a way out of our difficulty, after all. Thank the Powers for science – and for Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer, whose upbringing has so superbly equipped him to design weapons of warfare.>

<Limilt…> I began.

Then I caught a glimpse of Shisken's face, and realized the futility of further protest. Even I, obtuse as I was in such matters, could read the expression in her eyes; she was already envisioning herself flinging chert-tipped rods at the Andalite oppressors, and no amount of rational argument would deter her.

I looked around at the others. Berel's expression, of course, hadn't changed, but I saw no reason to doubt that he would support the scheme – and Kirinar's dominant emotion, so far as I could read it in her face, seemed to be reluctant admiration of Limilt's ingenuity. No, there was no point in attempting to argue the project down. Better to accede for now, and let the frustrations of practical engineering (of which Grandfather had so often spoken) dampen everyone's enthusiasm for the theory on their own.

<Very well,> I said. <Kirinar, I suggest that you help Limilt find and sharpen the chert nodules. Shisken and Berel can gather chikinee and branches for the rods, and I will see about designing a workable frame.>

Limilt dipped his tail in the ritual gesture of obeisance. <We are indeed fortunate, we of the Selicar,> he said, <to have such a wise and clement leader as the illustrious Prince Garatron.>

<Tell it to the saltuar, Limilt,> I said privately. (5)

<"Tell it to the saltuar"?> Tobias repeated. <What's that mean?>

<Um.> Ax lowered his eyes, and shuffled his hooves awkwardly. <It means … that is, in a sense, it… ah… well, roughly speaking, it means "Don't call me prince".>

<Ah.> Had he been in human form, Tobias would have smirked. <Gotcha.>
Last edited by Qoheleth on Sat Jul 09, 2011 2:18 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: The Garatron Chronicles

Post by Sassy_Cat » Tue May 24, 2011 5:41 pm

Glad to see that you decided to buck up and continue.
"Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things."
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