Woisper, Ulisa,
Salmeister and Trimestrius. All are important beings in this
universe, not to mention possessors of singular talents. Each soul
comprises the only valued pieces of my collection, spared recently
from molestation by the pernicious mob, as a result of my own
foresight, which had them cached under the stoutest beobar timbers.
Meet Woisper the Wilful, Ulisa the Utilitarian, Salmeister the
Saturnine, and Trimestrius the Third!”
Weavil, while
not registering the names of the illustrious individuals, made an
expansive compliment about the foresight which corroborated
Nuzbek’s claim.
Nuzbek ignored
the declaration. Peering at the figures, he motioned toward the
round, pot-bellied, grey-bearded man—indubitably Woisper. Shoulders
were stooped, his garb completely brown: brown hood, brown scarf,
brown vest, hose, and brogues. The adjacent homunculus was
yellow-bearded, of middle years—a man who wore a pair of voluminous
tan and umber trousers. Owing to his sallow cheeks and bulbous
face, Baus guessed this fellow to be Salmeister. He wore a gold
circlet atop his balding crown and the figure seemed hopelessly
encaged. Dismal, if not moribund. Another silhouette was poised
glowingly with an elfin, pleasing arrangement of breast, hip and
haunch underneath an acolyte’s pure violet robe. Under the liquidy
tumble of her tresses she upheld a most awful scowl and looked out
of her fish-bowl world through a pair of smouldering eyes. The
last, but not least, looked a renegade-ish chap, a woodsman
perhaps, who wore the green regalia of a ‘hunter’ complete with
green cape and belled cap. A golden broadsword, now shrunken to the
size of a gladius, hung belted at his hip.
Nuzbek
motioned to the last jar which contained the weaponed swain. “This
pretentious, foul-tongued varlet is ‘Trimestrius’ the Third. He is
a schemer and misbehaver. A betrayer of most reprehensible
dimensions and I have kept this knave separate from the others. The
brown-hooded reprobate is, as you can guess, Woisper the Wilful, a
wretch and tyrant, but a prodigal in his hey-day. The robed beauty
is Ulisa the Utilitarian—a splendid example of womanly beauty,
gorgeous, and puissant in her prime, but in many aspects an
absolute harpy. Do not be deceived by the illustrious contours! She
is a witch. The winsomeness is illusory. The yellow-faced,
cornflower-bearded buffoon standing so haughtily in his brine, is
Salmeister the Saturnine, a repugnant oaf whose transgressions are
too numerous to state, so I will bypass a formal disclosure.”
“Very well—a
daunting foursome,” agreed Baus grimly. “But what have these
wretches to do with us? And why the dark looks and sinister aspects
on their visages? Even now, I think to hear malicious mutters
issuing from Ulisa’s lips—the one who seems to project abuses
toward yourself.”
Nuzbek shifted
in pretended amazement. He dropped to a knee, pressed ear close to
the jar. “I suppose you are correct, Baus.” His gaze grew
abstracted, as if trying to recall past times. “Ulisa can be a
disparaging hoyden, if she puts her mind to it. Once she was my
tutor—a priggish pedagogue—this was a very long time ago. All these
criminals form past liaisons with me. Either singly or in concert,
all chose to betray me, and now they serve as decorations to my
travelling chambers. Tokens of marvel, in fact, delighting me at
times when my mood demands it.” He focused his glare on the
disarray of broken bits of glass, bone, shell, metal and cloth in
his trunks. “These shards—they are all that remain of my last
wondrous adjuncts! Alas, at times as these, I receive my greatest
joys from these bottled bibelots. Look at their unique
grace!—amongst this ridiculous riot of ruin!”
Weavil let out
a high-hearted chuckle: “Look on the bright side, Nuzbek. Even if
you had tried to retrieve your adjuncts at an earlier time, they
would have likely been demolished or purloined by the throng.”
“Perhaps
Salmeister and Trimestrius. All are important beings in this
universe, not to mention possessors of singular talents. Each soul
comprises the only valued pieces of my collection, spared recently
from molestation by the pernicious mob, as a result of my own
foresight, which had them cached under the stoutest beobar timbers.
Meet Woisper the Wilful, Ulisa the Utilitarian, Salmeister the
Saturnine, and Trimestrius the Third!”
Weavil, while
not registering the names of the illustrious individuals, made an
expansive compliment about the foresight which corroborated
Nuzbek’s claim.
Nuzbek ignored
the declaration. Peering at the figures, he motioned toward the
round, pot-bellied, grey-bearded man—indubitably Woisper. Shoulders
were stooped, his garb completely brown: brown hood, brown scarf,
brown vest, hose, and brogues. The adjacent homunculus was
yellow-bearded, of middle years—a man who wore a pair of voluminous
tan and umber trousers. Owing to his sallow cheeks and bulbous
face, Baus guessed this fellow to be Salmeister. He wore a gold
circlet atop his balding crown and the figure seemed hopelessly
encaged. Dismal, if not moribund. Another silhouette was poised
glowingly with an elfin, pleasing arrangement of breast, hip and
haunch underneath an acolyte’s pure violet robe. Under the liquidy
tumble of her tresses she upheld a most awful scowl and looked out
of her fish-bowl world through a pair of smouldering eyes. The
last, but not least, looked a renegade-ish chap, a woodsman
perhaps, who wore the green regalia of a ‘hunter’ complete with
green cape and belled cap. A golden broadsword, now shrunken to the
size of a gladius, hung belted at his hip.
Nuzbek
motioned to the last jar which contained the weaponed swain. “This
pretentious, foul-tongued varlet is ‘Trimestrius’ the Third. He is
a schemer and misbehaver. A betrayer of most reprehensible
dimensions and I have kept this knave separate from the others. The
brown-hooded reprobate is, as you can guess, Woisper the Wilful, a
wretch and tyrant, but a prodigal in his hey-day. The robed beauty
is Ulisa the Utilitarian—a splendid example of womanly beauty,
gorgeous, and puissant in her prime, but in many aspects an
absolute harpy. Do not be deceived by the illustrious contours! She
is a witch. The winsomeness is illusory. The yellow-faced,
cornflower-bearded buffoon standing so haughtily in his brine, is
Salmeister the Saturnine, a repugnant oaf whose transgressions are
too numerous to state, so I will bypass a formal disclosure.”
“Very well—a
daunting foursome,” agreed Baus grimly. “But what have these
wretches to do with us? And why the dark looks and sinister aspects
on their visages? Even now, I think to hear malicious mutters
issuing from Ulisa’s lips—the one who seems to project abuses
toward yourself.”
Nuzbek shifted
in pretended amazement. He dropped to a knee, pressed ear close to
the jar. “I suppose you are correct, Baus.” His gaze grew
abstracted, as if trying to recall past times. “Ulisa can be a
disparaging hoyden, if she puts her mind to it. Once she was my
tutor—a priggish pedagogue—this was a very long time ago. All these
criminals form past liaisons with me. Either singly or in concert,
all chose to betray me, and now they serve as decorations to my
travelling chambers. Tokens of marvel, in fact, delighting me at
times when my mood demands it.” He focused his glare on the
disarray of broken bits of glass, bone, shell, metal and cloth in
his trunks. “These shards—they are all that remain of my last
wondrous adjuncts! Alas, at times as these, I receive my greatest
joys from these bottled bibelots. Look at their unique
grace!—amongst this ridiculous riot of ruin!”
Weavil let out
a high-hearted chuckle: “Look on the bright side, Nuzbek. Even if
you had tried to retrieve your adjuncts at an earlier time, they
would have likely been demolished or purloined by the throng.”
“Perhaps
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