Before - Legends Saga - PT Saga - OT Before the Saga Saga - Legends Findswoman's Fragments & Miscellanea (assorted short stories)

Oh, thank you all so much! I am glad Wym (and Glockel) came off all right; his inner struggle was hard to write in a balanced and believable way, because it's kind of an odd, offbeat inner struggle. Yes, I do indeed plan to feature him in other stories—perhaps also his Master, Hinrisch thur Mohlen, too. His people do indeed have strong principles, which in some ways is a good match for the Jedi Order—except maybe when principles conflict? Wym obviously wasn't too wild about the nonattachment doctrine, for example... could be a future story...

And now I'm curious to know what you did think her childhood might be like...!

Thanks so much! The Germanic-classical dichotomy is indebted in part to Goethe's Faust, where it's a theme that recurs from time to time—especially in part 2, where Faust (representing the Germanic) marries Helen of Troy (representing the classical). I do indeed want to do a fanon post about Nydringia and its people sometime; I imagine the two planets being geologically similar (rocky honeycomb-like core) and being longtime trade partners and allies. The Kathol Sector in the Outer Rim Territories is established, though.

Same here—it always seemed pretty darn likely, and in keeping with what we know about Imperial prejudices.

Thanks so much, and thanks especially for your role in beta-reading it—your input was immensely appreciated.

Would you believe, I wrote that story many years ago! Or at least the part of it where Glockel and Telfien first meet. Eventually I plan to dust that story off and post it here, though other stories will have to get farther along first.

Oh, thanks so much for reading! For the inspiration to bring in Jedi Sentinels and Shadows, I am 100% indebted to K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku 's feedback. Although I had known a touch about the Sentinels (or at least that they were one of the three paths you could choose in KOTOR), I didn't know the Shadows even existed before K'Tai suggested in her beta comments that those with the finta sempli ability would be prime candidates for Shadows. When I read more about them, I thought they were so cool that I made Wym's master one as well, and I hope someday I can write more about them going Shadowing together in Wym's padawan years.

 

Kahara, thanks so much for that awesome review! Your reviews are works of art in themselves, and if "There is no death!" merited such a fine specimen, then I know it can't be junk.

Your comments bring to mind some very interesting takes on this story that didn't occur to me before—which is an immensely good thing. Originally, I hadn't intended thur Mohlen's "Who knows but it may save your life sometime?" comment as anything more than an extra little afterthought from a proud-but-concerned teacher, complete with my late grandmother's signature finger-wag. But you're right, it takes on a new significance in light of Wym's current predicament, because he's starting to see that his special power can't necessarily save him anymore, and it's partly his own fault. I imagine that could be quite a harrowing realization for anyone with a special power like that.

I do imagine Glockel's orphanage as being a fairly nice place, almost along the lines of some of those Victorian-era orphanage stories like A Little Princess. Though of course no amount of that can make up for her feelings of loss, or possibly for her feelings of wishing her uncle could be around more often (though she understands why he can't).

Tinctorius: I rather deliberately left it unclear whether she dies or lives at the end of this piece, because I want to leave that possibly open for other stories (and, truth be told, I haven't decided yet ). When she slumps into the stormies' arms at the end of the story she's definitely still alive, but barely conscious. I based her on two strong Germanic women I knew in my college years, one being a professor in the German department and the other being the wife of my organ professor (the latter's name was Sigrid, up which Sigrada is based). I like her too—I hope her no-nonsense way of standing up to Vader came across all right, and it certainly is meant to reflect her people's values of stoicism and steadfastness.

And I am glad you liked the Anakin flashbacks. They were added at the suggestion of K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku, and I'm so glad she suggested that I do so, because they were a way for me to bring one of my favorite aspects of Vader's character into this story—that one hidden remnant of good that has the tendency to get brought to the fore by the most unlikely of things. And I've always liked the idea of a modicum of respect between adversaries, or the fleeting moment of kinship between them—makes things a little less black-and-white. (That's supposed to be what's happening at the end when Vader runs up the stairs and contemplates what's left of Wym.)

Now, the disappearing act... this is where you brought up something that really was new to me. Now, of course Obi-Wan's death is the influence for this all the way—no surprise there—right down to the idea of strengthening the Force through the act of self-sacrifice ("If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine"). This has been something I've been curious about ever since Qui-Gon didn't disappear in Ep. I; I confess that I still don't know as much about what goes into it as I probably should, & I should possibly dig around on the Wook some more before I show my ignorance, but... I take it from what you are saying that this is something a Jedi can choose to do at his or her moment of death rather than something that just happens? That is actually something that I confess I didn't realize, but I'm so glad I know it now, because that makes Wym's final decision fit in all the better with his last words and with the title.

Thanks so much once again—always a treat! And stay tuned for the next story, inbound in five... four...

 

Oh, thanks so much, divapilot! I appreciate that very much. Yes, "both exotic and familiar" is one of the things that I Ioved about the design of Naboo (and thus that drew me to design its Germanic counterpart)—indeed, it's a general aesthetic principle that seems to inform the entire GFFA.

 

Author: Findswoman
Title: Opus Sixty-Six
Characters: OCs, Emperor Palpatine, assorted Imperial advisors and soldiers
Timeframe: Somewhere between about 15 and 10 BBY
Genre: Drama, introspection
Rating: PG-13: violence, censorship, speciesism, gaybashing, and a single brief mention of a character’s past sexual assault
Summary: Two non-Human musicians are forced to perform before the Emperor—and offer protest.
Notes: Award fic-gift for Chyntuck, in honor of her well-deserved awards for Best New Author, Best Canon, Best Original Character, and Best Original Relationship. Namajib Eskari is her character, and it is with her kind permission that his name appears here. I thank Ewok Poet for beta-reading and providing much-appreciated feedback.

---

Opus Sixty-Six

“Get up, furry. You’re on.”

Miarla Ligouri rose from her bench in the detention cell and followed the black-uniformed guards down the corridor. Although slightly short for a Selonian worker female, she still stood a whole head taller than both of the Imperial soldiers leading her. The binders on her wrists did not diminish from the regal figure she cut in her floor-length scarlet gown.

“A recital in His Imperial Majesty’s private auditorium. This’ll be the highlight of your career, otta.” The fur at the nape of Miarla’s neck bristled at this slur, but she said nothing. “Now let’s go get your flamboyant freak of an accompanist.”

Shortly they arrived at another cell. Sitting there was a lanky, blue-skinned male Twi’lek, clad in snug-fitting black leather trousers and a tunic of goldenrod synthsilk. His hands too were cuffed. He sprang to his feet as he saw Miarla and the guards approach.

“Miarla! Are you OK? Is it really—”

“Quiet, flameboy!” barked the soldier. “You’re coming too!”

“Officer Bormun, if you please.” It was Miarla who spoke, her voice purring and lyrical.

“What do you want, furball?”

“Well, since we are about to have the . . . honor of performing for His Imperial Majesty and all, may Jefson and I take a moment to discuss some . . . musical considerations?”

“Fine. But be quick about it.”

“Yeah,” grunted his colleague. “His Majesty doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Miarla and Jefson sat together on the bench in the cell. “So it’s time, isn’t it?” the Twi’lek asked in a whisper.

“Looks like it.”

“You sure you want to go through with this?”

“Jefs, we have to.”

“Of all the pieces, though . . . you know both Bel Fiora and Eskari are banned . . .”

“That’s why we have to,” sighed Miarla. “We can’t let that wrinkled old brute tell us or anyone else what we can and can’t perform. We’ve always believed that, right?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And anyway,” she continued, cocking her head, “there’s no way in any of the nine Hells that I’m singing ‘Glory of the Empire’ for him or anyone.”

“Hurry up, you two!” yapped Bormun.

“Just another sec, OK?” Jefson retorted, then twiddled his fingers nervously as he lowered his voice again. “So, um—I know we talked about doing either number three or number four—”

“Maybe number four? That was always my favorite.”

“How did I guess? You and that sustained triple-p high cresh.”

The lutrinoid singer gave a little chirping laugh. For a moment it seemed as though she and Jefson were back in the practice halls of the Coronet City Conservatory of Music. They had known each other ever since Master Niskus Navlys’s first-year Intro to Galactic Music course in their first year. Together they had survived countless rehearsals, master classes, juries, and recitals. After graduation their friendship and collaboration had continued, and both went on to become up-and-coming young performers on the Coreworld art music scene. The stages of some of the finest concert halls in the Galaxy—in Imperial City, Theed, Chibias, and Empress Teta, among many others—had been graced by Miarla Ligouri, soprano, and Jefson Er’kap, clavi-pian.

And then came COMPNOR, and with it the censorship, the speciesism, the scarlet holopanels that strove to screen non-Human artistry from public view. Non-Human artists and performers of all kinds were banned from the Galaxy’s major concert halls, theaters, opera houses, and galleries. Some gave up their careers altogether. But not Miarla and Jefson. The two old schoolmates found ways to continue making music, seeking out smaller, less regulated venues: small recital halls, streetside galleries, tapcafes, private homes. With renewed determination they sang and played the works of banned composers both Human and non-Human.

After that, the arrest and detention was inevitable. This very engagement—if it could be called that—was inevitable. They had always known that. But would it be worth it? That they didn’t yet know.

“All right, you two!” Bormun’s voice broke the silence. “You’ve wasted enough time. Get a move on!”

They were escorted through the corridors of the Imperial Palace to an unlabeled door at the end of a short, dim hallway—the stage door of the Emperor’s private auditorium. As Bormun opened the door, Miarla caught a glimpse of the heavy curtain of silver-blue velvoid, the dim red sconces, and the angular, black-and-gray geometric patterns on the wall—typical banal Neo-Sith Deco ornamentation. The stage was empty except for a standard concert-size clavi-pian.

“A Nidwalb,” remarked Jefson in an undertone. “Probably dreadfully out of tune.”

“Quiet, tailhead,” snapped Bormun. “Sprugg, take their binders off.”

As Sprugg did so, Bormun strode out to the middle of the stage and puffed out his chest. “Your Imperial Majesty, ladies, and gentlemen!” he bellowed. “It is my great pleasure tonight to introduce the reek-nowned Selonian soprano Miarla Ligouri, who will now perform our beloved Imperial anthem, ‘Glory of the Empire’!”

Applause broke out. At a prod from Sprugg, Miarla and Jefson ascended the stage. Miarla noticed out of the corner of her eye that the tips of her collaborator’s lekku were twitching in irritation. Just trust those boorish gray-coats to ignore the accompanist!

As she took her bow, Miarla looked out over the audience—over the advisors in their pompous caftans and oversized hats, the gray-uniformed officers of all shapes and sizes, the courtesans in their slinky gowns. She saw the raised, semi-enclosed dais in the middle of the room where His Imperial Majesty sat, cloaked in black. A leering grin flashed across his wrinkled features as she caught his eye. For a moment it occurred to Miarla that she was probably taller and stronger than he or anyone else in the room, and that she—unlike any of them—possessed razor-sharp claws and teeth . . . what if, just what if she were to jump from the stage and use them to claw those hideous orbs—those horrid, bloodshot, yellow excuses for eyes—from their sunken sockets . . . ?

The applause subsided. Jefson was sitting ready at the clavi-pian. Miarla turned and gave him a nod.

An ethereal cresh-minor chord shimmered forth from the clavi-pian’s high register.

“Here, in the luminous, windswept dusk . . .”

Murmurs and whispers hissed across the auditorium. “Wait a minute . . . What’s going on . . . That’s not . . .”

“Now!” A crashing unison gave way to turbid, rumbling tremolo in the low register. “Before the strings of the vye are slashed . . .”

“What’s this?! How dare they!” The Emperor’s voice crackled above the ripple of murmurs. He turned to a corpulent advisor sitting nearby. “Vandron, what is this degenerate hogswill?!”

“I . . . I don’t know, Sire . . . it sounds like maybe Ugon Sal-Stiller, or Lorne Bel Fiora, or someone else in the Second Corellian School—”

“Before the moons bleed to death . . .” Louder and louder grew the tremolo chords as they climbed higher and higher. “Before the hyperdrive of the day fails . . .”

Another advisor, an equus-faced man in a wide-brimmed black hat, chimed in. “It is Bel Fiora, Sire. From his opus-sixty-six Eskari Songs.”

“Eskari?! That deranged, alien-loving—”

The agitation of the tremolo gave way to a plangent, lyrical melody. “Give me your hand—O jebwa-petal-small!”

“Yes, Sire. Namajib Eskari and Lorne Bel Fiora were good friends, and Bel Fiora set several of Eskari’s poems to music—mostly as large orchestral and choral works, but he wrote the opus-sixty-six songs as a personal gesture shortly after Eskari’s death. They’re based on poems from The Vortex, Eskari’s very first—”

“NO!!” The Emperor sprang to his feet. “GUARDS! SILENCE THEM! NOW!”

“Give me your hand, and whisper, and remember . . .”

Like a green meteor, a bolt of blaster fire sailed across the stage from the direction of the stage door. Still singing, Miarla jumped out of its way as it hit the clavi-pian, leaving a gaping, smoking hole in the black-brown wood. Raucous cheering exploded from the audience.

“. . . that you are all that is left of my song . . .”

Another blaster bolt flew from the same direction. An earsplitting scream combined with a cacophonous clang as Jefson collapsed face-first onto the keyboard of the clavi-pian. A voice grumbled, “Oh, kriff! I’m out!” More cheering erupted.

Miarla shuddered visibly but kept singing. With the sublime high cresh just ahead, she barely noticed that the Emperor was now standing, his hands extended toward her and the lurid yellow of his eyes trained on her . . .

“. . . in this . . . luminous . . . windswept . . .”

Miarla shrieked and doubled over in sudden, excruciating pain. A barrage of images were bombarding her mind like a hailstorm of razor blades. Late-night cramming in the practice room . . . nerve-wracking juries . . . embarrassing concert-night flubs . . . devastating masterclass criticism . . . the eminent visiting professor who forced his way into her practice room one evening . . . the humiliating arrest at the Works benefit concert . . .

With a final bloodcurdling scream, she collapsed to the stage floor, unconscious.

And thunderous applause filled the auditorium. ¶

---

Notes

Spoiler: GFFA influences and references

Yes, the title is meant to be reminiscent of A Certain Order Executed in Episode III.

The otta is an established GFFA creature (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Otta). Its use as a slur for a lutrinoid being is not officially established; I use it here in keeping with the common strategy of using the name of a “lower,” nonsentient being as a slur for a similar sentient being (compare, for example, how Bossk calls Zuckuss “bug” in The Yavin Vassilika, or the use of “rabbit” as a slur for hares in Brian Jacques’s Redwall books).

Nine [Corellian] Hells: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Corellian_religion

COMPNOR: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/COMPNOR

Chibias concert hall: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Chibias_concert_hall

Theed concert hall: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Concert_Hall

Vye: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Bass_vye

Jebwa: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Jebwa_flower (I chose it because it’s native to Eskari’s homeworld of Corellia—no idea whether its petals are actually small or not, because the Wook doesn’t say, but it sounded pretty!)

Vandron: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Crueya_Vandron. His daughter, Marika, is a Chyntuck OC introduced in “A Tree-Dweller in Imperial City.”

The “equus-faced man in a wide-brimmed black hat” is meant to be Kren Blista-Vanee, whose Wook entry describes him as being “a socialite and connoisseur of fine art”: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kren_Blista-Vanee

Coronet City Conservatory, Ugon Sal-Stiller, Lorne Bel Fiora, and the Second Corellian School are all my own creations. The clavi-pian is as well, and is the result of my further ruminations on this post in the Writer’s Desk thread.

The Works: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Works. It is also the site of the Plebeian Exhibition at which Ayesha Eskari exhibits in part 2, chapter 10 of Chyntuck's Anánke.

Spoiler: Real-life influences and references

The concept of the forced concert at which the performer protests by playing a different piece than expected was inspired by the climactic concert scene in act 2, scene 5 of the opera The Passenger by Miecysław Weinberg (1968; premiered 2006). (See this post in “You Know You’re a Fan Fiction Writer When . . .” )

Nidwalb: my own creation, named after Baldwin Pianos.

Niskus Navlys is named for Sylvan Suskin (d. 2008), a longtime professor of music history at my own alma mater, Oberlin Conservatory of Music. Although I never actually took it (I placed out), his Music History 101 class was something by way of an institution and a rite of passage for first-year conservatory students.

The Emperor’s use of the word “degenerate” is indeed meant to echo the Nazi regime’s use of that term to mean pretty much any kind of modern art by people they didn’t like.

“Triple-p,” “unison,” and “tremolo” are all real-life musical terms.

 

Thank you all for reading and commenting.

Why, thank you! And Bonvika thanks you too. She is definitely meant to be a little... different from most of her species, at least as we know them.

Thank you, Ny! It was a huge honor to be asked by her to write something. She gave me pretty much free rein, but when I read about that one opera plot, an immediate lightbulb came in my head—one that would allow me not only to get Namajib and his poetry in there, but also to address some of the same themes that come up in Chyn's own writing: the arts, Imperial culture and all its flaws (especially as regards its view of aliens), professional pride in all its forms, and advocacy for the downtrodden. (Chyn, sorry I'm talking about you in the third-person here—hope I am saying nothing inaccurate. )

Yes, you all are right on target here! In overly pragmatic times like those of the Emperor, it's easy to fall into the trap of seeing art as just a pretty, inconsequential extra. Perhaps that's even how the Emperor and his cronies see it. But Miarla and Jefson know art is more than that: it has real power because of the way it can affect the emotions so powerfully—and when that happens, its inspiration can't help but spread. And now you've got me pondering who from that audience might have passed it on, and how...

Wow, that's awesome—not just for the beauty of the piece, but also (especially) because the forced-concert opera scene that inspired this story involved a solo violinist: a young Polish man imprisoned in Auschwitz is forced to put on a recital and play the camp commandant's favorite waltz. But instead he starts playing the Bach Chaconne (BWV 1004, movement 5), and is hauled off. That is the last main scene of the opera before a brief epilogue.

Well, you are most exceedingly welcome. It really was a huge honor to have the opportunity to write this for you, and I wanted to put my best work into it in honor of your very well-deserved wins. It didn't hurt that the original plot bunny (described above) just begged and begged to be written—and that this was an opportunity to distill some of my own educational and professional background into fanfic form.

All right on. I hadn't thought about the stage door quite that way before, but yes, it makes perfect sense that the auditorium stage door communicates with the detention cells—because Miarla and Jefson are most certainly not the first beings the Emperor has forced to perform for him in this manner. And yes, their pride in their talents and abilities is first and foremost here. In a way, their strategy is to treat this as just any other concert, giving 100% of their talents just as they have done since their conservatory days, and just as they would do on any other stage—"the show must go on." That's their way of going down fighting, and it's one that (they know) arguably will have an even deeper effect than brute-force fighting in the traditional sense.

As both of you point out, the Nidwalb comment and the "ignoring the accompanist" bit are manifestations of their pride in their training and talent, and they need that pride now more than ever, if for no other reason than that it will help bolster their courage in this impossible situation. They are allowed a little snobbishness here.

And the accompanist thing is very true—even in real life people sometimes forget that accompanists are an integral part of performances like this one. Art songs like this one for solo voice and piano are just as much intended to showcase the talents of the pianist as the vocalist.

I'm so thrilled glad you liked how the poem came out! Of everything in this story, giving N. Eskari his first written-out poem was probably the thing was most honored to have the chance to do. I checked out two books of poetry by Pablo Neruda (gorgeous stuff!) to page through for inspiration (his 100 Love Sonnets especially so). "Before the strings of the vye are slashed" and the similar lines were also partly inspired by this poem by Yehuda Amichai (originally in Hebrew):

Spoiler: Before

Before the gate closes,
before everything is said,
before I become estranged.

Before the discerning blood dries up,
before things are boxed in,
before the concrete hardens.

Before all the flute holes are blocked,
before all principles are explained,
before everything is broken,
before the law goes into effect,
before God’s hand closes,
before we go away from here.

Oh, he's a real piece of work, isn't he? [face_laughing] Though I kind of sort of see his eagerness to show off his knowledge about the piece, Eskari and Bel Fiora, the Second Corellian School composers, etc. as indicating that, deep down, he really kind of likes this sort of music.

And yes, that's what's happening, or at least what Palpatine thinks is happening: he thinks he is killing artistic liberty by striking down these two degenerate, alien musicians who dared perform the "wrong" piece in front of him (the Auschwitz commandant and his cronies no doubt felt the same in that opera scene). But he has lost already. Miarla and Jefson already did perform that "wrong" piece. The impression has been made—that's the power of art.

As to what the crowd thinks—well, they are probably thinking all sorts of things, as you point out, Kahara. Some may not know what to think and may just feel kind of deer-in-the-headlights about it all. But certainly some of the more repugnant among them are enjoying the spectacle of these two alien artists being attacked and tortured. They definitely have seen this sort of thing before. (And again, you have me wondering who from this crowd might have passed on the story of what happened, and in what tone and vein, and to what larger effect...)

Well, yes. That realization is part of what makes her go on with performing as planned anyway, though of course her natural classiness is part of it too. As is the collegiality inherent in music-making: Jefson's depending on her, and neither of them can in conscience leave the other to go it alone.

(I'll admit that Miarla's ruminations about attacking the Emperor were added partly to get a little more of her alien characteristics into the picture—Selonians are on average taller than humans, and Selonia has a distinct warrior that is made up mainly of worker females like Miarla. In her youth she most certainly learned some ways of using those claws and teeth to defend herself.)

Oh, so did I! That kind of review is an artwork in itself, and shows that her award was well-deserved too.

Thanks again, all. I appreciate you and all you have said all so much—really and truly.

 

I've owed this wonderful review a proper response for some time now, so here goes...

Now you've got me curious to read said trilogy, which I haven't done yet. What's the name of the badass Selonian worker female, so I can at least start by looking her up on the Wook?

Ah, but do give him some credit too... he's the one who snaps at the Imperial officer who yaps at them to hurry up, and there's the Nidwalb comment, too, which he makes in full hearing of the officer. Though it's true enough that accompanists often get overshadowed by their singers—ask anyone who plays any keyboard instrument who has ever accompanied a singer, ever. Hmm, maybe I should write a story from Jefson's earlier career, about one of his solo recitals...

Thanks! (And thanks for using the terms crescendo and decrescendo in a way that makes sense—I know that your Italian knowledge is at work in that, too.)

For that I am entirely indebted to the scene from The Passenger that inspired this fic, because that was absolutely saying the same thing. The banal waltz requested by the camp commandant is, as I understand it, meant to represent of the state of "high" art in the Third Reich—and when Tadeusz (the violinist) strikes up the Bach Chaconne it throws that into such powerful, subversive relief that of course they have to haul him off. And it says in some ways more about them than about him. Exactly same deal here.

Thanks! It wasn't conscious at all—I guess we're so ingrained to think of that color scheme as "evil" that it just happened that way (and indeed the black-and-gray-heavy color scheme given to the Empire in the movies is derived from the Nazi scheme as well). The Naboo hall, in contrast, was probably some beautiful beaux-arts-ish structure with reddish granite walls covered with flowering vines, topped with a copper-patina-green dome. You and I both place a lot of importance on color and color descriptions, I can tell.

Yes! As I said above, the fact that Blista-Vanee jabbers on about the piece and its composer is sort of meant to give the hint that he maybe kind of secretly likes it. Hey, the two of them hearing it at its premiere years before could be a very interesting story...

That is an immense compliment coming form you—thanks so much. As Kahara noted, the text of the song is indeed meant to reflect the situation that Miarla and Jefson are in, and that (apart, of course, from the the beautiful extra-soft high cresh!) is a large part of why they chose it: here, in what we know is going to be the dusk of our lives, before the inevitable darkness and destruction close in on us, let's enjoy making music one more time.

But even before the two musicians found themselves in their current situation, it was no doubt a theme that ran through their whole post-COMPNOR performance career: we know the darkness and destruction will eventually close in, so let's enjoy making music while we can.

A very compelling image, and very suited to the story, but remember they're performing from memory here—they have to for their gesture of protest to work, otherwise the guards would catch on before they even get on stage. And again, that hints at the fact that they've performed this piece together already numerous times, and that it's one of their signature pieces.

Interesting interpretations. I guess this is one of those places where I left the interpretation up to the reader, but I too could see people in the audience clapping for all three of those reasons. Certainly a lot of people were the type who just clap at anything, and others may have been clapping for the Emperor. But I'm sure there must have been those in the audience who really and truly were applauding for Miarla and Jefson (those who, as JadeLotus and Kahara surmise, will eventually pass on the story). Now as to why they didn't take action... well, what Kahara said about the anonymity of the crowd.

Hvala. I threw many aspects of own background into this, so that compliment means an especial lot to me.

 

Author: Findswoman

Title: The Chronomaker and the Findsman

Characters: OC (nameless Gand male commoner), with brief appearances by others, OC and non.

Genre: Vignette, introspection, slice of life, whimsy

Summary: “Though that chronomaker had certainly not needed a Findsman to recover his long-tipped pliers from his waste-flimsi receptacle, for fog’s sake” (The Book of Gand, chapter 11). Except he really kind of did—except not in the way one might expect.

Notes:
(a) This story was spurred by a comment the lovely and talented Kahara made on a just-for-fun parenthetical aside in chapter 11 of my Book of Gand (quoted above). There are a few brief, passing references to things in that story, but one doesn’t have to have read it in order for this story to (hopefully) make sense.

(b) It is a bit of an experiment, riffing on one of my favorite Beatrix Potter stories The Tailor of Gloucester (1903), some of whose style elements it consciously borrows.

(c) It turned out to fit at least somewhat with the OC Revolution summer challenge, initiated by Ewok Poet: “Your character experiences walking in somebody else's shoes. You may interpret that in any way you like: they can fill in for somebody at work, read somebody's mind...or pretty much anything in between!” I also thank EP for her much-appreciated feedback on earlier drafts.

(d) Finally, it is by way of a fic-gift for Kahara—not only in appreciation of her taking the time to comment on that one little moment in the longfic, but also in sincere gratitude for her invaluable beta-reading help.

---

The Chronomaker and the Findsman

In N’xid, the smallest and humblest of the pocket colonies that loom from the mists of Gand, there lived a chronomaker of the Breather subspecies.

All day, and most of the evening, he would sit in the window of his shop in the central street of N’xid, crafting and repairing timepieces of all every description—from the tiniest, quietest watch for a Findsman’s pocket to the stateliest chiming cabinet-chrono for an industrialist’s drawing room.

But although his craftsmanship was of the finest quality, although he built his timepieces from the choicest metals and crystals and finest precision parts, he was aged and in poor health. Several facets of his compound eyes—particularly around the edges—had gone dim from constant squinting. And he was poor.

Before him on his workbench lay the parts for an exquisite pocketwatch. The case was of platinum, inlaid with corusca gems and a family emblem; the movement was an intricate filigree of miniature cogs and wheels and coils; and at its heart was an oscillator driven by a single, crimson-glowing dragite crystal, mined from the depths of the Surface of Gand. It was for Semfod Sylonn, governor of the pocket colony of N’xid, in honor of his recent attainment of the honor of janwuine.

It would be the most beautiful timepiece ever created by this poor chronomaker of N’xid, and it would earn him his fortune—perhaps also his name.

He had handcrafted each of its parts, one by one; it was his claws and his tools that had set each corsuca gem into the platinum case, lined up each cog with its neighbor, placed the dragite crystal between the tendril-thin tines of the resonator fork. And now it was time to put all the parts together, one by one.

But one of the tools he needed was missing: his long-tipped pliers. He needed them for joining the pieces of the movement one to another and for soldering the movement in place inside the case. If he used any other tool, the radius of the connecting links would be incorrect, and friction would build inside the mechanism.

The chronomaker rummaged anxiously through the gears, springs, balance wheels, bezels, hand tools, and power cells that besprinkled his workspace, as countless as the droplets that formed the evening mists. As he did, he clacked his mandibles worriedly and murmured to himself as he was wont to do.

“Size-triple-zero cogs, springs smaller than a clawtip . . . how can this Gand possibly connect one to the other with nothing but his chunky claws? The flat-nosed pliers are too short, the toothed grippers will leave scratches . . .”

He looked in the drawer where he usually stored his hand tools—nothing. He looked on the shelf near the soldering apparatus in case he had left it there—nothing. Or perhaps it somehow had ended up in the cabinet where the lathe was kept? Well, the mid-size wire cutters were there—Mists only knew why. But not the long-tipped pliers. The chronomaker clacked and murmured some more.

“O Sacred Visionary Mists! Today is the middle day of the Warm Season, and the governor’s secretary will be coming by early this evening . . . and shall Governor Semfod Sylonn be without his jeweled pocket-chrono on the day of his janwuine-jika?”

It was at times like these that the chronomaker wished he had been gifted with the talent of the Mists, the talent of the Findsman. No one else but a Findsman stood any chance of recovering anything in this untidy fog-pit of a chronoshop. There was only one member of his family who had ever that talent: a second cousin (or was he a third cousin? he couldn’t remember) by the name of Vennlok Ssympk. And he had seen this cousin at work a few times before . . .

“Now, what does Cousin Vennlok do when he’s hunting for something? . . . Oh yes. First the incense lamp.” He took one from his shelf. “Gand only has this little tiny one, but it should do . . .”

He lit it and set it on the floor. After a few moments wisps of green smoke began to curl upward.

“And then he usually sits and closes his eyes for a while . . . somewhere comfortable . . .” He looked around. “The workbench won’t do . . . maybe here . . .”

Along the back wall of the shop, between a cabinet-chrono that had just gotten new foam pads and another that needed new foam pads, there was a space just big enough to hold an average-sized adult Gand. The chronomaker’s aging exoskeleton creaked as he squeezed himself in, lowered himself to the floor, and sat.

And closed his eyes.

And sat.

And sat.

Minutes passed, maybe hours. Everything remained dark before the chronomaker’s eyes. No swirling mists had formed in the eye of his intuition (or whatever it was Vennlok used to say) to lead him with their intricate patterns toward the missing tool. He saw nothing but the dark inside of his own nictitating membranes.

He was just thinking of what he might try next—“Sometimes he chants things, doesn’t he? Or holds up his hands in fancy ways?”—when a gruff voice intruded on his thoughts.

“There you are! Gand feared you had closed! If you could kindly take a look at this—”

The chronomaker’s eyes popped open to see a large, purple-chitined male looming over him, thrusting a non-platinum, non-jewel-inlaid pocketwatch in his face and blathering something about smashed crystals and corroded power cells. The words washed over him almost like mists—though not mists that showed any signs of parting to reveal his missing pliers.

Even so, the chronomaker found himself jumping to his feet, taking the watch, and saying something like, “Yes, by all means, honored citizen. Gand shall tend to it immediately.” The citizen thanked him, saluted, and left.

Clacking his outermost mandibles in resignation and embarrassment, the chronomaker made his way back to his workbench. This was not working. He set down the citizen’s ordinary chrono and eyed the pieces of the governor’s ornate one.

“Mother and Father and Master Tergloss were right all along . . . some things on Gand just can’t be grasped by a lowly Secular . . .” He glanced at one of the many timepieces up on his shelf. “And meanwhile—O dear Mists!—it is only an hour before the governor’s secretary comes . . . and Gand has no pocketwatch to show him, only some gears and two halves of a case . . .

“But wait! What is this Gand sees out his window, that comes like a column of light piercing the fog?”

This was, of course, a bit of an exaggeration, for what the chronomaker saw coming was really more like a column of dark-brown robes piercing the neutral-colored monotony of the other townsfolk’s tunics. It was a Findsman, walking along the cobbled street past the shop. It was not Vennlok Ssympk, but someone much younger, likely an apprentice—a well-looking youth, with bright silver eyes.

The chronomaker ran out onto the street and grabbed this wondrous apparition by a capacious brown sleeve.

“Oh, Your Mystical Honor, this Gand begs you to help him! His long-tipped pliers are missing, and without them he cannot finish the pocket-chrono for Governor Semfod Sylonn . . .” If the Findsman’s mouthparts ground slightly at the sound of this name, the chronomaker did not notice it. “Please, Gand begs you . . . please help him find them!”

“By all means, honored citizen, with the Mists’ help,” the Findsman replied, and followed the chronomaker into the shop.

The chronomaker watched as his visitor looked intently about, taking in every detail of every object that sat on every shelf and listening to every tick and whir. He watched as the Findsman seated himself at the workbench and looked over the parts of the governor’s watch laid out neatly before him. He wondered what the youth meant by placing his hands gently on the tools lying off to one side of the workbench, then on the handle of one tool drawer, then on the handle of the other.

But as the young Findsman hunched over the bench, squinted, turned to face the supply cabinet, and then turned back to the bench, it all became clear: he was placing himself in the same physical postures and attitudes that the chronomaker would be likely to assume his work.

Then the Findsman looked under the workbench, scanning the floor beneath it. There was nothing on the floor besides a few stray, broken bits of wire and a half-full waste-flimsi receptacle that sat directly below the tool drawers. This he peered into, then reached into, then rummaged through. After a few moments he held up a pair of long-tipped pliers with a rubberized handle.

“Here they are, honored citizen.”

“By the Holy Madman’s cloak . . .” The chronomaker’s mouth popped fully open. “You mean they had fallen into the—”

“Yes.” He handed the tool to the chronomaker, who still stood agape. “Take and use them in good health, and may the Mists show you the way.”

With that, before the chronomaker could say anything, he bowed slightly and took his leave, fading off into the evening mists as he walked away down the street. ¶

Spoiler: Notes

N’xid is an original Gand pocket colony, first appearing in chapter 9 of The Book of Gand (see also the notes to that chapter).

Semfod Sylonn is an OC, first mentioned in The Book of Gand, chapter 9.

Although I did do a bit of Internet research on watchmaking in the course of writing this story, both by browsing watchmaking supply catalogs and consulting Wikipedia’s quartz watch entry, some of the watchmaker talk is basically just Treknobabble (well, technically Warsnobabble, but that doesn’t have the same ring to it ).

Two of the names mentioned in the story are homages to The Tailor of Gloucester: Tergloss and Vennlok Ssympk, the latter being named for the tailor’s cat, Simpkin.

If you have read The Book of Gand at least through chapter 11, you will likely recognize the young Findsman in this story, and you’ll know why he snarls at the mention of the governor. Neither piece of knowledge is absolutely essential for understanding the story, however.

“May the Mists show you the way” is given as Zuckuss’s characteristic quote in one of the West End Games guides, though I can no longer remember which one. I understand it as a familiar Findsman’s greeting and/or blessing.

corusca gem: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Corusca_gem (I don’t see why they couldn’t be found on other planets besides those listed in the Wook article)
dragite crystal: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Dragite_crystal (ditto)
janwuine: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Janwuine
janwuine-jika: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Janwuine-jika
power cell: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Power_pack (certainly there must be watch-sized ones in the GFFA, as there are in the GNFA)