From The Jackals To The Shepherds 27: 7 of Clubs

 
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The poet this week is Gertrude Stein: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/gertrude-stein

The Woods:

89D4825E-0D7B-4071-A27B-14E155711CAF

The Map:

DaveTaylor

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Battlebards Tracks used:

Elven Dirge – Farewell – Score Music – Philippe Payet

Transcription:

For a long time, we were at war with The Jackals. But now, we’ve driven them off, and we have this – a year of relative peace. In this moment, there is an opportunity to build something.

The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. As the determined girl who has been with us a long time returns to our community, we only now notice that she had been gone. Her head dips low in failure and while she does not speak of her time in the woods we know that whatever mission she set out upon, the results were not to her satisfaction.

Up in the mountains, the ponderous bodies of the Frost Shepherds stir underneath miles of rock and exposed to miles of air. All of this has happened before, and all of it will happen again, and as the cycle of autumnal chill bathes the community in its shivering rain, the grinding of stones produce a wailing hum. The magical girl who has been with us a long time had attempted a spell, a ritual to interrupt a spiral. But the spiral still continues, and she knows there will be no escaping. If anything, she has only accelerated its progress.

If you were to sit above the thrones of the inscrutable, untranslatable, ineffable Frost Shepherds and watch the valley between the mountains you would see over eons the same patterns played out. A great spiral, a slow, ever-widening, unmeasured spiral unrolling itself horizontally. The people in this community, frozen in time and sometimes frozen in ice, appear to be motionless at every stage of their progress, each one is simultaneously being born, arriving at all ages and dying. You would perceive that it is a world without mobility, everything taking place, has taken place, will take place; therefore nothing takes place, all at once.

To the people in the community, this spiral moves so slowly as to be immaterial, they do not see the spiral, it only makes itself known at the beginning, and at the end.

The ritual has completed. The desperate girl who’s been with us a long time had tried to stop the spiral but as a small shell worn down in the river’s flow the spiral continues even after the form has gone.

A violent luck and a whole sample and even then quiet.

The Frost Shepherds do not hold strength to come just yet, but as the heat of summer held them at bay the chill of autumn welcomes them to waking. They send their eyes into the water of the river, the water that is squeezing, water that is almost squeezing on lard. Water, water is a mountain and it is selected and it is so practical that there is no use in money. A mind under is exact and so it is necessary to have a mouth and eye glasses. A question of sudden rises and more time than awfulness is so easy and shady. There is precisely that noise. A peck a small piece not privately overseen, not at all not a slice, not at all crestfallen and open, not at all mounting and chaining and evenly surpassing, all the bidding comes to tea. A separation is not tightly in worsted and sauce, it is so kept well and sectionally. Put it in the stew, put it to shame. A little slight shadow and a solid fine furnace. The teasing is tender and trying and thoughtful. The line which sets sprinkling to be a remedy is beside the best cold. A puzzle, a monster puzzle, a heavy choking, a neglected Tuesday. Wet crossing and a likeness, any likeness, a likeness has blisters, it has that and teeth, it has the staggering blindly and a little green, any little green is ordinary. One, two and one, two, nine, second and five and that. A blaze, a search in between, a cow, only any wet place, only this tune. Cut a gas jet uglier and then pierce pierce in between the next and negligence. Choose the rate to pay and pet pet very much. A collection of all around, a signal poison, a lack of languor and more hurts at ease. A white bird, a colored mine, a mixed orange, a dog. Cuddling comes in continuing a change. A piece of separate outstanding rushing is so blind with open delicacy. A canoe is orderly. A period is solemn. A cow is accepted. A nice old chain is widening, it is absent, it is laid by.

A new discovery. A glass carafe of frozen ice by the door of every home. Every home except those of the newcomers to the community. A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing. All this and not ordinary, not unordered in not resembling. The newcomers know that the first groups bound well, and pushing sticks into bonds can stretch. The difference is spreading.

And a week passes.

Thank you for joining us for the twenty seventh episode of From The Jackals To The Shepherds. If you like this show please give us a rating on iTunes, tell a friend, or share us on social media. As always the intro for the show was read by Dave Lapru, who is also our mapkeeper. You can find Dave on twitter at plantbird, and I’m at leviathan files. Please consider visiting our website at Riverhouse Games dot com, or supporting this show and other Riverhouse Games work on Patreon at patreon dot com slash Riverhouse Games. Music for this episode was provided by Battlebards dot com. Until next week, I hope your week goes well.

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