From waldo@webspan.net Mon Oct 30 11:43:04 2000 Newsgroups: rec.arts.sf.written.robert-jordan Subject: Winter's Hurt - A Parody/Satire (long) From: "Richard M. Boye'" Date: Mon, 30 Oct 2000 11:43:04 -0500 Yes, so I am home today with some sort of virus, and I decided to throw together a small little parody that probably would have been similar to my entry in the Plot Contest I never organized. I will say that I lost whatever desire I had to orchestrate such a contest when it was revealed that "Snow" was going to be sold rather than published for free, but I think that was more of the straw that broke the camel's back. I am having a hard time summoning much excitement for this installment, which from what I have seen seems to indicate the series will drone on without very many of the long-expected denouements that are badly needed. In any event, this is not so much a parody as a satire. It -does- contain small spoileresque references to Elayne's situation in "Snow," so proceed at your own risk. Here ya go: ******************************* Winter's Hurt (pt 1 of a possible series) Tuon sur Paendrag, Tuon ay Miroth, Princess Imperial, and Daughter of the Nine Moons peered over the wales of her greatship, hers in name and truth, gifted to her by her Bloodmother upon the choosing of her high name. She stood in gleaming robes of white and blue silk, brocaded in an intricate pattern of moons and clouds in thread-of-gold, many months work from a talented seamstress, all over a gown of pristine white pleats. The Second Daughter of the Empress herself, May She Live For Several Volumes More, and Heir to the Crystal Throne in Seandar was a tall young woman, well formed, with pale blue eyes and a face lovely enough to make a man stare. She wore no jewelry, yet she did bear a long, curved sword in a jeweled sheath, sapphires and moonstones shining in the day's brightness, the golden pommel inlaid with more sapphires visable over her shoulder. The alien city of Ebou Dar was a stone's through away across the churning green bay, sprawled around this fine harbor, and everywhere she looked, she could see the banners of Hawkwing rightfully restored to places of honor, the golden hawk resplendent in flight against a field of purest blue. She drummed her lengthy nails on the wooden rail, each lacquered and filed into a small blade, signifying her rank as a member of the House of Paendrag. While impressive they were certainly cumbersome, and she required a maid to help her do most of everything, from buttoning her robes to swabbing her keel, as High Admiral Sanar would call it. Perhaps the largest in the vast armada of the ships assembled for the Return, Tuon's vessel was spacious and sumptuous, manned by the finest sailors and mariners in all of the Empire. She admired their precision and unquestioning discipline, but she did have to wonder at whatever whim of some military designer caused them to have to wear those small pom-pomed caps and ridiculous pants, with legs whose bottoms flared like bells. She simply shrugged, and conceded that her own personal style was nothing to write home about either. Her sculpted face was all but unnoticed below a perfectly shaved pate, which gleamed in this foreign sun like a chrome egg. Face it, Tuesy, she thought to herself, our entire Empire could really use a makeover. If only there would be time. There was nothing Tuon enjoyed more than giving makeovers, but before her spread a continent of newly returned subjects, and so her own vanity would have to wait. For now. A few quick impalings, some sieges, and perhaps a few mass executions, and then she'd be good to go. She wondered how she'd look with a mohawk, or maybe a full mop of flaxen hair like her disgraced older sister Cerandin, reduced to shoveling s'redit dung. ******************************* Moist tangy sea air wafted over the low sills of this chamber, and Matrim Cauthon lifted his throbbing head from the satin pillow. "Where am I?" he questioned aloud to the walls. He scanned about, and took note of the expensively appointed room with accents of gilt everywhere, fine hangings of silk, and some lurid paintings of scenes would rather not have to describe. They put him in mind of things his mother would stab him with a pitchfork for even countenancing. "Ah," he griped, "Tylin's room." No other woman would be so...tacky. Mat heaved himself from the soft, muffling bed and walked over to the wide-open windows, bare as his birthing day, and leaned against the casement, presenting those below in the courtyard with a complete view. A liveried woman noticed him and screamed, and hastened inside, and the small regiment of green coated soldiers paid him no mind, although about one in ten gave him an appraising leer. Mat felt himself color, and darted away, trying to reassemble what series of events led him back to this chamber of sin. He recalled he was searching for Olver as the city was being invaded by those bloody Seanchan, He recalled running afoul of those bloody sul'dam, and then a wall fell on him. Someone must have found him and brought him back to the Tarasin Palace. "Ah, my young colt, I see you are awake," called out a familiar husky voice from a doorway. "And I see you have been awaiting my return." That was followed by a rather sinister sounding chuckle. Mat whipped around to find Queen Tylin Mitsobar parading into the room, clad in some sheer dressing-robe, and clutching a basket filled with cheeses and more of those bloody raw oysters. The woman was insatiable. And more than his mother's age at that! Mat thought about Natti and Abell, and wondering if they did the wild thing as often as Tylin did. The thought of his stolid, prim mother lashing up his father the way that Tylin was fond of doing to him was laughable, although his father did have mysterious rope burns on his wrists from time to time, and often walked funny first thing in the morning... "Duckling, I was concerned when you ran off without this," said Tylin, running her bulbous, veined hands along the shaft of his ashran'dei in a vaguely suggestive manner. "So I had some soldiers out searching for you." She held it out towards him. "Lambkin, Will you show me how well you wield your spear?" Again that throaty laugh, as if she had heard some very inappropriate jest. Mat was stunned at the woman's single-mindedness. "Tylin," he blurted, "your country is being invaded by the armies of Bloody Artur Bloody Hawkwing, and your capital city is bloody well under siege, and you still gotta have it?" Even now, Mat could hear distant rumblings as buildings collapsed from damage unleashed by sul'dam and their 'leashed ones.' Tylin Quintara Mitsobar simply shrugged. "I will deal with these Seanchan in my own time, mooseling." "Mooseling?!" demanded Mat. "What in the name of the Light is a 'mooseling? You're making these words up as you go along, aren't you? I could deal with colt, and duckling and even lambkin, which by the by, is not in spellcheck, but I draw the line at 'mooseling'!" "Fine," replied Tylin primly. "I shall simply call you 'my toad,' then." "Why 'toad,'" he asked cautiously. "Because you are horny all the time." And with that, she flung her body at him and they tumbled back into the wide bed. The Seanchan would wait, after all. ******************************* Egwene al'Vere, Amyrlin Seat, Watcher of the Seals, Flame of Tar Valon, sat dourly inside of her tent, dubbed the Amyrlin's study, and rubbed her temples. Her head pains continued unabated, yet you she could never ask for help. That would make too much sense, after all. It was just after dawn, and most of the vast rebel encampment was still asleep and silent, except for maybe those in Leane's nearby tent. The lithe Domani sister was strangely liberated of late, and she had been holding 'auditions' for her new possible warders. Some sort of Domani custom, thought Egwene, for it was something she had never heard of, and it seemed to involve a trampoline, the ability to juggle, as well something Leane would only refer to as "Miere a'vienya," which Egwene was able to haltingly translate as "sea acts," or perhaps "water acts," or possible even "water sports," which made simply no sense! Where in the Light would they get enough water to 'sport in,' after all? They would certainly not dare leap into the now ice-choked Erinin. Sometimes, Leane was a mystery to her. Egwene shifted amid her blankets and paused to reflect about her meeting last night with Elayne in Tel'aran'rhiod. It certainly had been peculiar. She knew that Elayne was daring enough to adopt the fashions of whatever foreign land she was in, at least while in the World of Dreams, yet Elayne was back in her native Andor, which was certainly not known for its provocative and risque styles. Yet there was Elayne, sitting atop the Lion Throne, looking regal and commanding with the Rose Crown set amid her golden curls, and the beautiful noblewoman wore some bizarre costume that seemed comprised of a leather corset, tassels, sheer stockings, heeled riding boots and a black mask. Elayne had seemed shocked as Egwene's arrival, and hastily donned an imposing gown of crimson wool edged with white ermine. When questioned about her odd outfit, all Elayne would say was that it had something to do with her ceremony to adopt Aveindha as a First-Sister. Egwene had to accept that, but she did have to wonder why the Creator seemed to think that every ceremony involving women required them to undress, or adopt some other demeaning attire, and often beat each other in some sado-masochist bondage fest. She'd wager that the Asha'man would do no such thing, nor would the Younglings. Their meeting had been brief, as Elayne informed her of the sorry state of affairs in Andor. Egwene piqued a brow when the golden-haired woman informed her that she had installed Birgitte as Captain-General, as well as invested her with a title and estates of her own, and Egwene held her tongue when Elayne explained that they had put out that Birgitte was actually Kandori, which would explain her strange pantaloons. Did Elayne and Birgitte think -everyone- was stupid? Birgitte was clearly a Heroine of the Horn, and even if her appearance wasn't enough of a signal, Birgitte's constant clumsy name-dropping should be enough of a clue. Andorans sure are thick-witted as goats, commented Egwene to herself. After her meeting with Elayne, Egwene allowed herself to Dream, and such a spate of Dreamings she experienced, thick with symbols and double entendre which might well be indecipherable at the moment, perhaps suggesting several more volumes in a series that should be careening towards the end-game. It made no matter to Egwene al'Vere. She had pictured herself as she had been for far too long now, in some sort of predicament, this one involving her standing on a branch that snaked out over a chasm, and she could hear a strange, sawing noise. When the branch gave, she would fall, yet she was helpless to prevent it. There was more to that vision as well. From her lofty vantage point, she could see Gawyn rushing headlong towards her, crawling in his smallclothes over red hot tacks, and she knew that if he failed to reach her, she would perish. She also was able to see Halima sitting in the cleft of the very tree from which Egwene dangled, merrily employing a wicked, jagged-toothed blade to hack away at Egwene's branch, but that, she paid no mind. She also ignored those curiously flashing letters over Halima's head which read "Forsaken" in blinking red lights. She just wished her time among the Wise Ones had been longer. There was so much she was unable to make out. She dreamed of Rand sitting in a low-edged box of what looked like black stone, while what looked like serpents writhed about him in combat. Upon inspection, what appeared to be serpents were actually dragons, legged and maned like those emblazoned on Rand's very skin, and they were of two sorts. One serpentine army was blue and gold, and the other scarlet and gold, and they seemed ready to devour one another, yet Rand sat blithely amid them, playing with three dolls, one with auburn hair, one with hair the color of red gold, and another with bouncy brown ringlets. He seemed to be amusing himself greatly by having the dolls engage in mock combat, often ending in a messy reconciliation of hugs, kisses and other acts that should not be mentioned in mixed company. Those has been the ones that loomed largest in her memory, yet there had been Dreams of Perrin and Faile involving that fierce-eyed woman scratching Perrin's belly furiously, causing him to drum his leg against the floor reflexively, and of Perrin walking in a circle a few times before laying down. She Dreamed of a falcon, a gilded rose long since devoid of its luster, and a really ugly Ghealdanin woman being surrounded by a thicket of spears, and herded off like sheep, and she also dreamed of Berelain smiling in great pleasure as she scratched Perrin's head between his ears. On an on the Dreams flashed through mind, a silver fox and a blue jewel dangling in midair, left infuriatingly untouched. She watched as the White Tower rumbled from within, yet she was unable to peer past the leaded glass windows and see what transpired inside, causing her to drum her fists against its smooth white facade in frustration. She observed Hurin, the Shienaran sniffer who had so valiantly escorted her to Tar Valon, simply sitting in the center of a colossal book, picking at his nose for want of something to do. She had always wondered what happened to Hurin, as did many others she suspected. She saw Nynaeve struggling to be heard over an increasingly large entourage of women who seemed little more than names, and they kept appearing out of the woodwork, blooming like shrill and catty weeds in a well kept garden, spewing nonsense and distraction like thick pollen into the air, causing Nynaeve's nose to run, and the short woman to sniff more strenuously than was normal for even her! On and on, more and more. Egwene's exasperation grew until she finally gave herself over to sleep. That was the last of last night's Dreamings, and now she found herself steeling herself to do battle with her contentious Hall. Even though she should have them well in hand with her little feat with the Law of War, you don't really expect them to behave like reasonable adults, do you? -- Richard M. Boye' * waldo@webspan.net http://www.webspan.net/~waldo/ UIN:9021244 "Some men lead lives of quiet desperation. My desperation makes a pathetic whining sound."