Flashback The Privilege of Hurricanes

[Philomena]

15th Day of Winter, 485 AV
Just past Sunset
Midrian's, a dinner club for students
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Philomena had already lost track of her escort. Of itself, this was not particularly upsetting - she'd begun the night EXPECTING to lose her escort. She'd come under the express role of 'person who my escort will dump'. She wasn't even sure, really, that they were 'buddies', as Drake always assured her they were. This was their third such date, and even Minnie Lefting was smart enough to recognize the difference between 'friend' and 'convenient human object.' Drake was in the corner, now, face mashed against the farrier's daughter he had been spending his time ravishing in secret, the reason he'd needed Minnie-the-Excuse-Date to go out to Midrian's with him.

Honestly, it wasn't that that even bothered her now. She hadn't come for love anyway - even if she HAD sufficient energy to desire to eventually couple with one of the animals they called undergraduate boys at University, it would certainly NOT be Drake. That stoutly healthy, round faced type with the great broad chest, no, no. Not for her. It was the table that she'd really come for. A table she chose (Drake didn't care where she sat, as long as it wasn't enough to impede his groping trip) - just in the corner, just behind... THEM.

She did not know any of their names - she would never have been so mad as to ask. But she had made up her own names for the Midrian Quartet, as she thought of them: Nose, the narrow curly haired poet with the long nose, Britches, the sparkling golden-haired girl who drank more than was good for her and ended up dancing on the table with no skirt the first time Minnie watched them, and the twins: Hop and Skip. They weren't REALLY twins, but they were the sort of narrow-shouldered, hungry artist types that were so common on the banks of the university, they could just as well have been.

And the four of them, were preparing... street theatre.

They had been talking about it for months, an unlicensed play to be performed on the corner of the University district, where they would each play made up satirical gods, and do some boffo reenactment of the catacylsm of Mizahar, interspersed with lewd ballads and a very artistic sounding dance number by Britches. If she had seen it in a book, she'd have rolled her eyes, but it WASN'T a book, it was FLESH, real people, trying to do great things.

"No, I don't like the lyrics, they sound wrong!" mewled out Skip.

Nose cleared his throat, and sang out in his growling baritone, "What are you talking about?"

Britches, sang softly, looking at a piece of foolscap, a wrinkle in her brow:

You, my love, the goddess queen of Sleeping-Caps!
Your milk is like the honey of the sea!

"You see?" said Hop, "What does that even mean?"

"Nothing!" shouted Nose, "It SHOULDN'T mean anything! That's the POINT! The gods, everything, the whole damned world! ITS ALL RIDICULOUS!"

"Like Hammagrile," sputtered out Philomena from her own table, half to herself.

The group stopped. Philomena went pale. She'd been so engrossed in what they were saying, that she'd forgotten herself, and she'd been so exhausted, from the hours at the library, the work in special collections, the painstaking research for her Zeltivan history class, from simply the stress of being lonely in a place where no one seemed lonely, that her inhibitions had collapsed for a moment. They returned now, with a vengeance.

"What was that?" said Hop.

"I.... I'm sorry."

"No, you said something, kid, what was it?"

In a less oppressive moment, she'd have been more offended at being addressed as 'Kid'. She was short, yes, but she had hips now, and a bust. She was 17 for the sake of the Gods. At this point, though, her shock at her own interjection prevented her from response.

The two twins, though, stared at her with a certain fierce anger, and Nose gave her a look of shock, almost distrust.

It was Britches that came to her rescue, "Don't mind them, hon. They're just intense. Who is Hammagrile?" she pulled a chair from an empty table, hooking it toward her with her long, dancer's leg and foot, then patted it, invitingly, looking to Minnie.

Minnie blanched, stumbling to her feet, "Hammagrile... its not a... a..."

"Its not a who, its a what," spit out Nose, irritably, "Its the title of a prose poem from one of the epic poets."

Minnie mumbled, "Lyric."

"What?" said Nose.

"Lyric Poets, not... not epic. It is... it is long like an epic, but a careful reader will... will note, that it doesn't follow the classical form. It is a long-lyric, actually a precursor to the work of the Pre-Wrightist Navigator Poets like Addistle and Kaymit. Anonymously authored, but usually attributed to Sifle, in her late period, after the death of her... her lover..."

Britches laughed, and took Minnie's hand. Minnie started, and pulled back a bit. She realized suddenly, she hadn't had someone touch her such a terirbly long time, not on purpose, and it felt foreign and exhibitionary, like realizing one's bodice has slipped down one's cleavage.

"Sit, lit student." Britches intoned, "You are a lit student, non? Tell us about this Sifle, and her poem."

Nose rolled his eyes and butted in, "She was a romantic, nothing special. Most of what she wrote was claptrap, greeting card shyte. At the end of her life, her little sex-toy died, and she got mopey. Wrote about how everything was absurd in the world. I would have thought of her."

"Why... this poet, Sifle, could be a character! We could have her holding the corpse of a porcelain doll!" shouted Hop.

Skip nodded excitedly, "Only dressed like a streetwalker!"

The conversation proceeded excitedly - and none too differently, really. Once in a while, Britches would try to pull Minnie back in, but never successfully.

To be honest, Minnie was distracted, because Britches' narrow, bony fingers (so thin! So thin! Was she sick?), were playing at the hairs on the nape of her neck. This was nothing unusual for Brithches - she was a touch-happy sort of girl, Britches was, more so the drunker she got - and she was on her third bottle of Kelp-spirit, now. Minnie had seen her noodle around with everyone at the table, stroking knuckles, fingering earlobes, whorling fingertips around their cheekbones. But this was different, because it was Minnie's own nape. IT was... relaxing. She'd never had a hand of someone else make her feel at ease, really. She felt calm. Part of the group, in a small way. And so tired. She curled into the hand without thinking.

Britches looked back and chuckled, a low contralto haunting into her voice, "Oh, you're a kitten aren't you? Lay your head down little kitten."

She did.

The next thing she remembered, it was closing time, and she was being shaken awake by old Midrian himself. The Quartet, was gone. And so was Minnie's bag. She started to her feet in a panic, and started to feel all over, to check that her things were there - and they weren't. Her bag was gone, with most of her money. Her earrings. Her necklace. Her hat, even, as battered and ugly as it was, had fled her, along with her gloves and cloak. She felt at her underthings - that at least was still there, her miza from Charm Wright. But the rest: gone.

"What happened?"

Midrian shrugged, "You think I'm going to call the watch every time some damned undergrad drinks a bit much and gets herself in trouble?"

"But I didn't drink... anything..."

He shrugged.

She sighed. She'd simply fallen asleep. She had been exhausted, after all, and that hand at her neck - so relaxing. Was that what friends did? The money, all of it, it still stung, but worse, was the feeling that it all been nonsense. Yes, they might have liked her little bit of intellectual fodder to chew on, but in the end? She'd never been 'part of the table'. She never would be.

She went back the next night, and there was a note for her left with the Bartender:

"Minnie -

Thanks for the loan, darling. So hard to be an artist! Keep your chin up, lit student!

Yours,

The Red Shoe"

It was a stage name, that much she could tell. And she never saw the girl, or Nose, or Hope and Skip, again.

[Arcane]

Rewards and Treasure! Experience Points +4 Teaching Lores Explaining the Little Intricacies of Lyric Poet Drake the Fake Date "Nose" of the "Midrian Quartet" "Britches" of the "Midrian Quartet" "Hop" of the "Midrian Quartet" "Skip" of the "Midrian Quartet" Robbed by "The Red Shoe" Comments This is a fascinating story, though I'm a little glad that you took a different tone on this one instead of the more emotionally wrenching ones earlier. I'm not sure how much my poor heart can take hehe. Good job keep going

[Arcane]

Addendum Experience Points +2 Anthropology Comments This is in addition to the grade above.