I wrote this years ago, as part of my participation in the High Fantasy Society (a fantasy live-action role playing game).
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There are times in one’s life when one is compelled to effect a change, to set right a wrong or shrug off a malaise that threatens the sanity. There, too, can be times when the change occurs without conscious effort, when the world sweeps up into its mysteries one who needs such a change but is unaware until after the transition is made.

My transition came as I walked the halls of my father’s castle in a drugged, drunken stupor. I won’t go into detail here—it suffices for the reader to know that I’d come to view my rather decadant life as a prison of sorts, escape from which I only believed would be possible through excess in various forms. Except for my chambers, the castle had fallen silent, the halls empty, and no one was there to observe my pitiful state.

As I stumbled along the hallway towards the dining hall, the air around me became charged with magic (a force to which I am attuned) and the walls became gauzy and insubstantial. Without warning, what I can only describe as an invisible wall passed through me, igniting my nerves and wiping the pollutants from my body and casting a shower of droplets and flakes of some pale orange material to the ground before me. At that time, I experienced a moment of perfect clarity, a sweetness and calmness of mind I’d never before felt.

Then, without warning or transition, the hazy castle around me was replaced with a thick, deep wood. My feet were suddenly jerked out from beneath me, and I was sent rolling along the ground, tumbling madly for dozens of yards before coming to rest. I examined myself for wounds, found none, and rose shakily to my feet. The woods were like none I’d seen before, the sky above my head just as alien. There appeared to be a clearing away to my left, and a structure therein.

I crept closer, and was filled with the most unusual sensation—that I, myself, was inside the keep that crouched darkly before me. It was…intense, that feeling. Something of me lay in an upstairs chamber, filled with doubt and indecision. Still, for all its intensity, the feeling lasted but a moment, for as I unconsciously stepped forward and pressed my hand to the warm (warm, on this cool evening?) stone wall of the keep it faded from existence as though a mirage, leaving only a massive depression in the grass of the glade.

I collapsed to my knees, filled with wonder, fear, and a curious sensation that I’d not felt for many a year: inspiration. There must be a purpose for the events of the last five minutes. That I had sensed such a strong bond with whatever slept in that transient, dark keep had to have meaning. I would discover it, delve into its mysteries.

Above me, the unfamiliar stars continued to spin…
—Ferox Gilan d’Besu
—The Commonwealth of Caladan

A note for people who end up here following a search for ‘short skirt’ or, as one person has recently, ‘short skirt nice ass’...

YOU PEOPLE ARE SICK!

A couple of weeks ago, Donnell and I found ourselves at On The Border, a chain Tex-Mex restaurant. As we were sitting down, a group of six or so young people were leaving, and I noticed that one of the girls (young ladies?) was wearing a short skirt.

Now, I don’t normally mind short skirts on young women, but my first thought in this instance was that the skirt was so short that it wouldn’t cover her ass when she sat down.

Think about it.

I don’t normally have to worry about what’s touching my butt. It’s going to be the inside of my pants, which generally has only been touching my own rear end. This girl, though, has to worry about what other people have been sitting in, which has been transferred to what she’s sitting on, and it all ends up on her butt. Bleah!

What compels people to wear things like that? I mean, sure, she may have had nice legs, but shorts show off legs as well, and you don’t have to worry about getting the previous party’s enchiladas on your ass. If you’ve got to wear a skirt, wear a longer one, and if it’s not risque enough, put a slit in it to keep your boyfriend excited.

Just please, please stop making me wonder if you’ve left an assprint on the vinyl.