Monday, August 19, 2013


The death of the Lord Mmenon, was a shock that rippled down from parts of the city he would never go to. From parties in houses one like him would never attend, from the families and associations of the rulers: the factions, the Houses, the associations and the fraternal sorieties, there came a muted decorous muttering of polite grief, followed by the sparrow calls of dominance as the pecking-orders rearranged themselves.

There would be a - well, not quite a state funeral - Lord Mmenon's former party were not strong enough at Court at present to demand the full rites, but there would be an extravagence, and a ritual entombing. His work would be the focus of this peers again.  Guildmaster Pieto took him aside in the antetombs and lectured him on his tardiness and laxity; but even as the old master's sputtering words literally rained their invective upon him, he knew that only he was skilled sufficiently to be alotted this task. Pieto did not berate him for failures past, but for fear that he might not live up to the accomplishments needed in this time.

That evening he was visited by the White Mask Guild, the next morning by the Red.  Each had its own idea of the appropriate honours to be visited on the viewable mortal-self of the latter Lord. "Make the twelve cuts to his right arm," the White Mask wearer insisted, "and twine through the wounds the stem of a single blue flower, so that its petals rest on his bicep. Thus all will see he came at last to the Three Sisters." Neither that, nor the wishes of the Red, did he agree too. There was an anger in the city. Some felt Lord Mmenon had lived too long, others that he had not died soon enough. There were rumours of murder. 

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