Ta'Samsca'Rial

Samsca sat in his small Vesperian office atop the town hall. The office was his for a few more nights yet and Samsca, with his general hatred of losing things sought to use it now. The office was sparsely decorated if pleasant enough. That blasted bear-wearing captain had removed most of the Mushrooms and vegetation which had once covered the chamber. Samsca had appreciated the ambience provided by the natural’s inexplicable presence within the man-made. It had confused visitors. For those of an especially weak temperament, or bad experience, it had even terrified. Terror was a good ally to have in conversation. It rivalled only uncomfortable silences for getting what one desires. The room now was quite normal, Vesperian red cloth over wooden furnishings. It was mundane and ordinary. Samsca disliked it.

The room was lit by candles, a necessity at night of course. Vesperian nights were dark indeed in winter, dark and cold. Yet the coolness of the room did not bother the elf overmuch. What was the cold to a being that spent countless hours roaming over the many crude paths and hidden vales that made up the range of avarice? Were the mushrooms afflicted by temperature? Samsca had it on good authority that they were not.

They were talking now. Unspecific thought Samsca. Who were they? They were everyone. The mortals were spinning their little webs and dancing their happy dances and the mushrooms were whispering endlessly to those who were prepared to listen. Alas in this age, few were. What were the mortals interested in then but food, shelter, spawning new generations with no more purpose than endless consumption? The recent furore seemed over news of an election. The election would replace their master, their baron, their Samsca.

Samsca blinked at this passage of thought. How could the Vesperians replace him? Which of them had served at Minoc? None as far Samsca could recall. Davion and Twothumb were gone and it seemed he was the last who could recall that engagement with clarity beyond that found in ill-written tomes. Yes there were a couple who had served at the second liberation but… but it was not the same. Why then was he not running to continue?

‘Ah yes. I remember now. It is all so clear.’ Samsca glanced down at the larger of the assorted fungi upon his desk. ‘Percy was quite correct’.

The position of being Baron was a heavy burden to carry. It was too heavy for one who had a great many of things of somewhat more pressing importance than the governing of a small city on the edge of a forbidding continent. The endless rebellions from within coupled with the tedious meetings abroad. No more meetings to discuss whether or not Vesper should be trading bread or cheese. No more meetings to discuss the latest fallout between the folk of the town and the militia.

Yet would there be a loss of respect, a loss of reputation? That would be intolerable. Would Samsca kowtow to some jumped up monkey possessing himself the staff to this collection of huts? Samsca doubted it. Let them keep this town the mushrooms cried, to the west, to the west, to the place the deviants name Minoc. Fair Minlenoc, the source of an obsession which predated the existence of most whom yet lived. Yes to return would be most pleasant, regardless of who ruled the irrelevant corner of the sky under which it was.

Samsca took out and looked at the finely wrought sceptre which was in some ways the key to Vesper. The election was not for nearly a week. That should be more than enough time to see a man about a dog and perhaps someone else about an ensorcellment or three. True sorcery was evil, but persuasion was so very difficult without the heavy clout of power.

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