COPYRIGHT INFO The Sporadic Verses are copyright 1992, 1993 and 1994 by Jeff Berry and Ben Baron. They may be reproduced in any SCA publication so long as this copyright notice is retained, they are not sold for profit, and the authors receive a copy. If you want to sell them for profit, or buy the nice bound collected editions, contact Jeff Berry, nexus@panix.com END OF COPYRIGHT INFO - Date: 11/25/97 The Sporadic Verses - an epistle in n parts Being a Satire of nothing in particular and containing no political content whatsoever. Prologue His name was Doomstalker Bladesmasher ... this week. He strode with a certain casual ease, not skulked as one might expect, down the cobble road now choked with panicking villagers, away from the burning shire's gates. From a distance, he could still hear the timbers cracking and popping and he could see the orange glow against the night sky. "Doomstalker, has a nice ring to it", he thought. Actually, he had chosen the name so as not to draw undue attention to himself, precisely because it was so ordinary. This was a name which would pass the College of Heralds in any land, he reasoned. "Everyone has a name like Doomstalker, or Bloodsword or Helmsplitter. Now, next time, I'll choose one like John, that will certainly stick out" It mattered little," he thought, "walking as he stripped off his hood, along the road, facing the cool night air, another week, another name." His work done for the day, he decided to head for the nearest tavern to congratulate himself on a job well done. "That is if there are any still open for business", he thought. ***************** Sitting in a tavern on the outskirts of the burning village, a bottle of homebrew on the table, Doomstalker (for now) consulted his large map of the Knowne Worlde. The map was well-used, dog-eared and comfortable. It was also covered in arcane symbols in red and green magic marker. Doomstalker (for now) took a hefty belt of his beer, and carefully circled the Shire of Obscuria on the map with red magic marker. "Another down", he thought with satisfaction. Outside he heard the pleasant nocturnal sounds of the inhabitants of Obscuria knifing each other and ganging up to shanghai any unfortunate newcomers and force them into a faction. He could hear the voice of the ex-Chronicler now haranguing a poor new arrival, "The newsletter is miserable now! I'll start up a new one, and run the opposition view - and you are going to help me." "Ah", thought Doomstalker (for now), "a press gang." He chortled inwardly. "Nothing like a little fracas over whether or not to form a Barony to bring a Shire to its knees!" He returned his attention to the map. Looking thoughtfully to the east side of the map, he noticed that there were three groups circled in green. He withdrew from his pocket the latest membership reports - Big Rock (54), Medium Rock (33), and Tiny Rock (13). "Looks like 100, time to go campaign for a principality." Another glance at the map showed him that an uncircled group was on the path from Obscuria to the Principality of the Rocks, as he was already beginning to think of it. "A short rest there, in the safe shire of Pedantia, would be lovely." He was rising to leave as he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Going somewhere, bub?" He turned to find himself clamped in his seat, staring straight into the twin barrels of the muscular barmaid's fur bikini. "Obviously from one of the southern marches", he thought. Slightly disgruntled, he reached into his pouch and produced several coppers, which he flipped onto the table as he stood up. "Rough place. If this tavern were a tournament, I don't think I'd sign the waiver." He hefted his army surplus duffel bag and headed out to the coach-house. *************** The coach rolled on through the night toward Pedantia. "I had but to touch my fair foe with the final blow. He knew he had met the better man, so vanquished, he fell. The crowd cheered, lifted me on their shoulders and carried me to my coronation." Doomstalker leaned back slightly on the coach seat. Of course, it didn't take a savant to realize that Doomstalker was lying. Any schoolchild knew that kings weren't created that way. It was a timeworn fairytale, but serviceable for the task at hand - enthralling the nubile maid sitting on the opposite bench. She was thin, twentyish, blonde, wearing a tight blue chemise, laced up the front, tied with a large bow at the top, which Doomstalker thought should be marked "In case of emergency, pull here". She nodded, doe eyed, in rapt attention. "I set the hook. Maybe I can reel this one in by the time we make our night stopover", thought Doomstalker. "Really?" The maid asked ingenuously, "I never knew you were King of the North." "Trust me", Doomstalker added with a predatory smile. Doomstalker quickly tired of this easy sport, and glanced out the coach window. As they rushed by, he could just see glowing in the moonlight a corpse impaled on a pike standing by the roadside. Doomstalker thought he could pick out the hint of a pearl-balled coronet on the head of the unfortunate victim. "Another ruling noble bites the dust. Wish I could take credit for that one, but he did it to himself. Maybe calling your neighbor's barony 'a haven for the arts' isn't the best way to make friends in these parts." "Obscuria. Just as well that shire burned down." Doomstalker was usually better at tuning out the prattling of small minds. He noted with annoyance that the maid's voice had that cooing quality found only in young females and swans which just had their necks wrung. "Why I hear they were a disgusting bunch. Every hot August night, they had this nasty festival. Did you know, I heard that on those nights, they would pass out cloved lemons at the shire gate?" Her voice tightened. Doomstalker couldn't tell if it was from disgust or excitement. "Hurts the morals of our children, I say", she said. "Of course, we know that morals and she are fast friends", Doomstalker thought. "Oh, yes, quite so.", Doomstalker added sincerely, reminding himself to keep his gaze on her eyes, "Disgusting." *************** Doomstalker (for now), relaxed on the rope bed, and tried to ignore the air-mattress underneath. Things were proceeding well. The maid, Fatima O'Rourke, was finishing up the last of the bottle of 'Blind Eye Mead' (We'll turn a Blind Eye if you will). "Urp", she said in a Lady like fashion, and stood to totter down the hall. "I'll be right back." Doomstalker (for now) smiled, "Of course, dear." As soon as she was gone he took the opportunity to rifle her belongings. He rocked back on his heels in astonishment at the contents of one bag - a County Coronet! This cast a whole new light on things. Doomstalker immediately decided that she must be on his trail (his paranoia being a thing of legend). He quickly replaced the coronet and fell back onto the bed. His mind was spinning, "A Royal Peer!" Then he smiled, "ah, it's not as if she was a real peer, at least." He pulled a blank application- for-Steward form out of his pocket and dropped it casually on her dressing table. "That should take care of her." She returned to the room, and Doomstalker dragged his eyes to her face. "Better, my dear?" he inquired in the exact tone with which he suggested that the Shire of Mugwort was properly a Canton of the Barony of Pedophilia, only 220 miles to the Southeast and across a Kingdom border. "Much", she replied. The rest of her reply was cut off by Doomstalker's finger, "Hush, child, let us simply take this copy of Corpora and meditate on the wisdom within. What's this? The Steward will be stepping down soon, I wonder who they will get to fill those shoes?" He could hear the sharp intake of breath from behind him, and knew he would be troubled no more by Countess Fatima O'Rourke. Chapter 2 It is a gentle irony that Doomstalker had chosen to read a copy of Corpora, since at that very moment, in the Northland, home of Baroness Jacqueline, the Stewardess of the Imperium, a different but quite related drama was unfolding. The Stewardess stood with her back to her large carpeted office, and stared out the large window behind her desk. The moonlight glinted off of the gleaming ivory walls of the city buildings all around her tower. She was startled by a loud knock on her oaken office door. She wheeled and asked "What is it? It's late." The familiar voice of her secretary, Yvette, came from the other side, "You wanted to be told as soon as your guest arrived, well he's here." "Send him in," Jacqueline said testily. Into the room strode a tall, broad-shouldered, blond, and handsome knight, his brightly polished armor clanking as he walked. Yvette sheepishly followed several steps behind. "Yvette, meet Archduke Sir Lancelot Soloflex," Jacqueline said. "Delighted ..." the secretary sighed weakly, feeling her knees buckle as he swept her hand up in his and kissed it, all the while staring into her eyes. "Now, please leave us, Yvette, we have business to discuss. Lance, won't you sit down." The secretary turned and departed, with a parting glance back over her shoulder to the knight who was now seated in a large chair. "Now, Lance, I have a little business proposal. As we discussed, I have a small cleanup job for you." "I would be delighted to do your bidding, lady. And I have some time on my hands, as I am between reigns right now." "What I need you to do, Lance, is to become King of the Wasteland." "The Wasteland," he said with contempt. "Why, ten times their Kingdom wouldn't fill up half of our fair Northrealm. Surely you wish me to have more of a challenge than that. Maybe I could be King of Ostia again. I am the only person to rule that land four times. An even five might make a nice feather in my cap," he said with a chortle. "No, I meant the Wasteland - I have a small bit of business I need the King of that Kingdom to do." "You cannot be persuaded, lady, perhaps Arrogantia instead - I have never been there. Anything but the Wasteland." "No, there is a mission which you must do. I need you to help set that group straight, and show them the TRUE WAY (TM)." "The TRUE WAY (TM)?" Lance said, with a certain note of derision. "That went out with Hula Hoops and Love Beads. This wouldn't have anything to do with that annoying, uh what's his name today, Doomstalker?" "Exactly," the stewardess exclaimed. "And with just a small amendment to Imperial Law, and a couple of quick Royal Decrees, you can help me solve my problem forever." Jacqueline unrolled a copy of Corpora and placed it next to Volume XI of the Governing and Policy Decisions, which she had been consulting. "Look here, your Archgrace." Lance did. Slowly a smile crept over his face, he looked up at the stewardess, and both bent again to the table, and moments later the sound of evil, yet gentle chuckling rose into the night. *************** Doomstalker rose at daybreak and stared across the bed at the prostrate Countess. She was sleeping the sleep of the dead, with her thumb jammed in her mouth and her copy of the Application-for-Steward clutched in her hand under the pillow. "Well," thought Doomstalker (for now), "With talents like those, I'm surprised she's not a Duchess." He smiled at the thought of the past night's activities. "Only another day to Big Rock, time to change identities. Besides, it will help to throw off Countess O'Rourke, should she recover. John, I think. Yes. John the Smith. Distinctive enough, I think. I hope no one asks for documentation, but it will brand me as a newcomer, no one with any experience in the Imperium would have a name like that." He eased himself out of the bed. With an obviously practiced hand, he slid silently into his garb, quietly closed the door behind him, sidled down the tavern steps then walked outside to the stable, where he obtained a rather plain-looking nag. He rode out of Pedantia, moving carefully along the road, his trained eye looking for anything which would be of use later. At the top of a rise, he paused, then smiled and drew his map out of his pack. "Let's see ... yes ... Barony of Agendia, only 14 miles from Medium Rock and on a major trade route. We don't want them in our principality, besides there's this huge geographical obstacle in the way!" He looked at the drainage ditch crossing the road that led to Agendia with a certain satisfaction. His mind began to compose his next speech to the populace: "When in the course of Wastelandish events, it becomes necessary for certain elements of the populace to seize their destiny in two iron shod hands." He ruminated, "Iron shod hands? Probably not, but it has a great ring to it." "Stand and deliver!" came the cry from off the road in the bushes ahead. John the Smith reined in quickly as a disheveled man in a lace trimmed doublet stepped into the road. "My god, a Cavalier," thought John. "They've been illegal in the Imperium since Governing and Policy Decision #488, how did this one escape the purge?" "Now then, sirrah," stated the disreputable looking gentlemen, "give over your goods and money or I'll put a pistol ball twixt your nipples." John flinched at the thought, but replied civilly enough, "I have little money and few goods, I am but a traveling cooper, hence my name, John the Smith." The cavalier looked confused, and John smiled, "but surely you cannot harm me! Are you authorized for pistol or rapier combat in this Kingdom?" The man spoke uncertainly, "You know as well as I that neither form is allowed in this Kingdom. That is why we, of the LPLF are robbing travelers to fund our revolution!" "The LPLF?" "The Late Period Liberation Front! Any fool can see that anyone from 1650 and previous falls under the purview of the Imperium! It's not like we're some Napoleonic gents, or Civil War re-enactors, or, God forbid, Mountain Men." John grew wary, he was dealing with a fanatic. Still, these lunatics could prove useful. Despite their crazed attitude and silly clothing they were fierce irregular fighters, and he often had need of men who knew their way around the taverns in the area. "Of course, how right you are! But no need to rob me! I will donate! I understand your problems. What you need is sympathetic royalty." The cavalier pocketed the money, "Aye, true enough, but how are we to get it? The positions of power are all sewed up by Vikings and Twelfth Century Englishmen!" John had him now, "Have you considered the advantages of living in a Principality?" ...