There is power in life. Those who value life and witness the ebb and flow of time, value power; not power over time, but with it. In recognizing its limited quantity, one may better harness what life they possess. The gnomes do not value life. Gnomes value gold. They do not value life, for to them life is prolonged and near indefinite. The gnomes look to the present.
Humans look to eternity. The presence of death sets their eyes on life. One cannot be known without the other. Though their life is limited, the life in them is not and so their appeal to the Finfolk is known. The Finfolk, immortal as they are, do not know life. If death is the absence of life, the Fin cannot know life in the ...view middle of the document...
Such is the way of talent, the unwitting bedfellow of contradictory companions.
The brush glided across the wooden sign, deftly avoiding splinters and cracks. He was too hasty. A drop of paint slid down the wood, leaving a deep red line in its wake. He went to wipe it up, but then decided against it. It looked more foreboding. Foreboding was good. Hannibal would be pleased, and pleasing Hannibal had its benefits. Percival wasn’t fond of the old man, few were. It didn’t help that Hannibal rarely ever came out of his cottage. Percival wasn’t rightly sure how he could lead in absence, but the village remained safe. No gnomes ever attacked, no werewolves ever devoured, and no banshees ever secreted away victims in the night. In fact, as far as Percival knew, no one had ever even seen one of the creatures. He didn’t take it as evidence of nonexistence, but merely a sign that Hannibal’s relationship with the Fin protected the village.
Percival dipped the brush in the paint. He stopped. Something moved in the bushes behind him. He dropped the brush and took a step back. One of the villagers playing games, he thought to himself. He glanced around, nothing but an empty village and a pale moon.
He bent down to continue his work. He instinctively reached for the paint, but found nothing but air. The paint was gone. He brushed away the grass and dirt. It was the other villagers, he was sure of it now. It was probably Baron and Clovis, and maybe that fiend, Brit.
A trail of red drops led to a nearby bush. Percival walked over, cautious, brandishing his paintbrush like a dagger. The leaves twitched. He tentatively pulled the branches back. Something burst from the bush, striking him in the thigh and sending him crashing to the ground. Pain shot up his leg. He caught sight of a red hat escaping into the forest, followed by a long white beard trailing in the wind.
Percival scrambled to his feet, and darted for the safety of the village. He had to warn Hannibal.
A Life of Loin Grabbing and Misery
Today was the day. Today Brit would win his love’s heart. He fastened the collar of his lace woven tunic. It was too wrinkled, he thought to himself. The left sleeve was slightly longer than the right, or was his right arm slightly longer than his left arm?
Brit stopped in front of a nearby window. The glass was crudely fashioned, marred by cobweb and crack. He adjusted his angle to get the proper reflection. His image peered back at him, distorted and transparent. He brushed his hair and smiled a toothy grin. His nose was too big, his hair too shoddy, and his complexion too pale. His tunic was too loose, too saggy, and too red. Brit realized he was too much of everything he didn’t want to be. So Brit decided to do what he always did, pretend to be what he knew he wasn’t. He took a deep breath, straitened his skirt, and approached destiny (even if that approach was hunched shoulders, shuffling feet, and a crooked back that may or may not have been the...