The LARP (CK3)

[Izulde]

"I'll sell it to you for tree fiddy."

"$350,000?"

"No. $3.50."

"...Are you joking?"

"Not in the least. Better you than my son, who would just turn around and sell it to an investor. Probably turn it into apartments or a parking lot or some other crap."

And that was how, for $3.50, I bought a bookshop two-thirds of the way across the country.

There's more to the story, of course. But right now, I'm too tired to tell it. Three days journey in a small U-Haul across the United States, with my chatty nephew, he of the chipmunk cheeks and chipped, yellow teeth from too many coffee straw chews and cigarettes, driving the whole way due to my being bereft of both car and license.

Initial impressions: A drop of 35 degrees from lower Southwest to Upper Midwest meant for a pleasant, beautiful late summer night and next day after we pulled in to the hotel, coated in grime and exhaustion. My items were promptly placed in storage that next day, and I was literally bone-aching tired. From the travel, from the loading and unloading, from the mattress firmer than a spinster schoolmarm. As of yet, I hadn't even inspected the new business I now officially owned.

Presently, it's early afternoon in this quiet, small town far more red than blue, like most locales of its sort in this country in recent years. I'm walking down the main street that leisurely runs for twenty blocks parallel to a river. The usual expected fellow businesses: bars - many with for sale signs due to the plague hurting their business, restaurants, assorted shops (one of those, on the 17th block, is mine), insurance agents, a couple of fast food joints - one national, one a regional chain, a lone gas station, a grocery store. This isn't in any sequence or semblance of anything - just random recall as I've traipsed up and down after my nephew left in a cloud of dust and smoke back home.

I've been told that the diner I'm now facing is one of the best breakfasts around. Unfortunately, it's lunch time. Doesn't matter. I'm hungry, I'm tired, and I'm tired of gas station food.

Door chime. I scan the seats and beeline for an empty booth far removed from other people. No one is masked except me, I belatedly notice as I flop down on the creaking leather.

"What can I get you to drink to get started?"

I look up into calm, dark blue eyes. I'm staring into them because they're so damn entrancing.

The owner of the eyes repeats the question. The voice is a young woman's. I blink. Blonde hair, curiously fashioned into not a ponytail, but a single, perfect oval at the back of her head. It's weird, but cool. Her face is expressionless. Probably because I'm acting weird as her hair. But then I always act weird.

"Uh... coffee."

"Sure thing." A smile, thank God. Though not the beaming, bright one of extroverts like my nephew. But the slight one of a smooth, self-assured girl who knows she's beautiful.

In the midst of perusing my menu, I hear repeated clangs. Looking over, I see the girl. She's constantly fumbling with silverware and dropping them. Odd.

Thirty minutes later, I've ordered and eaten a hamburger and onion rings. Throughout our interactions, she keeps that serene look, with a tendency to clasp her hands behind her back. The hamburger is good, the coffee great, the onion rings excellent, the girl? Well, a phenomenal server, bar the whole percussion of dropped silverware and the puff of falling napkins throughout my time there. That's okay - I'm clumsy, too.

I particularly appreciate the discretion with which she brings the bill. A careful, unobtrusive slide forward, the paper slip turned face down. It's a small gesture, but one I don't see too often these days, where servers slap the check down in open view face up, totally nonchalant.

That nonchalance I emulate as best as I can as I walk up to the counter. She breaks from her conversation with one of those old men who permanently perch themselves on counters - whether bar or diner - to take my card with that poised smile.

To avoid staring, I peer in my cashless wallet. There's a clatter. My debit card fell out of her hands and tumbled to the floor apparently. A swipe, with 25% tip, and signature later, I hand the machine back to her. She smiles broadly this time, her eyes lowered as she says, "Thank you. Have a wonderful day."

Me:



I don't know. I'm too scared to ask.

I do know her name is Nichole G. thanks to the receipt.

Or maybe it's not her. Maybe the name is wrong.

Nevermind. I'm going back to the hotel to sleep on that uncomfortable bed. Tomorrow, I'll get a look at what I bought and see just what I got myself into.

***Author's Note***
Yep, this is a Jestor AAR. That means we'll have a few posts of frame story before delving into the CK3 part of the AAR. I've set this up to allow for the AAR to continue even if (let's be honest - more like when) I get a game over. How that happens will eventually become clear.

[Izulde]

I've never been able to sleep for very long in hotel beds - even when they pass for average. So it's no surprise when I'm at 6 am to greet the dawn (4 am in my old time zone). I stumble down to the modest breakfast bar of coffee, juice, day-old doughnuts, and oatmeal packets.

Too much work for oatmeal, so coffee and doughnut it is. Neither one tastes like anything. Fuel for the body and brain is all.

And then it's off five blocks north. A weatherbeaten, white sign made dingy grey by the last winter and neglect, informs me that this is Main Street Used Bookstore. So much for originality. Maybe I'll have to change the name.

My key thankfully works, though the lock is a bit stubborn before yielding. When I step inside, I'm enveloped in that smell of must and dust so common to old books. I'm not surprised to see hand-written signs in an array of colored marker designating sections. Industry standard in a business that has profit margins more slender than a heroin addict. Why am I doing this again?

The warped wood floors creak with every step as I wander around aimlessly. There's probably asbestos waiting to kill me. Oh well. I'm staring at a pile of World War 2 books that are haphazardly stacked on the floor due to bursting shelves when the bell tinkles overhead with someone opening the door.

It's a tiny woman with electric socket shocked white hair and a face writ with wrinkles.

"Hello! You must be the new owner! I'm Matilda Swan, though you can call me Mattie. Are you open yet?"

"Um, I guess?" No sense in turning down a potential customer.

"Wonderful!" She moves with surprising speed towards one of the sections, "A girl can't go without her romances, you know. Especially with my poor Harold in the ground 17 years and the unmarried men in this town thinking you're too old for sex. Not true, of course. But maybe that's too much for me to say."

"No, you're good."

Another beaming smile as she rummages through, as I see when I get within the prescribed six feet of her, paperbacks whose spines are mostly tattered as the presumed bodices on the covers.

"I'm so glad you've come to our little town. We've been losing a lot of people, you know. Hard times for everyone. And Jeff was so happy to be free of this place so he could move down to Florida. Disney is the best, he'd always say."

Indeed, the insanity of my predecessor is now portraying itself on the walls as I spot far too many images of America's most famous mouse. "Eeyore is better. I don't know why everyone likes Mickey so much."

"Should I get you some thistles then, Mr... ?"

"Besserdich. Barry Besserdich. My father loved alliteration."

"I don't know what that is, but good for him. I like it when people have repeating initials. It's so fun! And your girlfriend or wife can refer to your man part as a BB gun."

"..."

She turns at my silence, holding a few books in her hand, "Oh! I'm sorry! There I go again with my big mouth."

"It's all right. What did Mr... err.. Jeff charge for paperbacks?"

"A dollar fifty or 4 for $5 usually. I've got four here."

"Okay, let's just do that for now. If prices change after I review the books, the financial ones I mean, I'll let you know."

"Thank you, Mr. Besserdich! Or would you rather I call you Barry?"

"Barry's fine."

An Abe Lincoln in my hand later, the smell of lavender is in my nostrils and filling the shop. I'm once again alone. I stare at the Mickey Mouse prints on the walls. No idea why, but they irritate me to the point of wanting to tear them down. Why didn't Jeff take the damn things with him?

I spend the next hour carefully removing the prints. Maybe I can sell them. No other customers in that time frame, nor throughout the rest of the day. I get the feeling this wasn't a well-patronized place. Small wonder Jeff sold it so cheaply and ran off to A Small World.

Shoot. I should have asked Mattie if she knew anything about Nichole, if that's her name. Too late now.

Over the ensuing days, I work on straightening and organizing the current inventory, periodically studying the finances. Just as I anticipated, business was virtually nonexistent. Worse yet, as I find out in an unpleasant conversation I don't want to to rehash, there's a monthly rent and utilities obligation I have to make. Great. Now what?

On the bright side, because I don't have any animals, I'm able to quickly move out of the hotel and into the small apartment above the bookstore. This, too, has a rent of course, but it's much cheaper than the weekly rates. From one apartment to another. A house seems so far off.

Hell, just making enough money to survive - let alone be one of those modestly successful small businessmen - seems remote. I do get a few customers - mainly summer tourists' housewives who want to read while their husbands go fishing and the kids play outside or inside on their phones. I'm already quickly determining that the Romances section is nowhere near big enough and should be one of the largest parts of my inventory.

So much to do.

And then, two weeks later, just as I'm starting to get into a rhythm, the bell chimes normally when it should have tolled ominously.

Because that's the visit that comes to change everything.

[Izulde]

Despite the faint, foolish hope that it might be my favorite waitress walking in, it wasn't.

No, destiny took the form of a boy who I assumed was a teenager. I can never tell ages. Judging from his bowl haircut, pockmarked face, and glasses that were thick rather than thicc, though... I had this kid marked out for a nerd. Not unlike me in school, actually.

"Hi. Do you have any RPG books? Mr. Winchester never let me see them. He said I was too young."

As it turned out, I did. They'd been oddly screened off behind a red, plastic divider that was marked Adult Only. On their right side was erotica and on their left was New Age books. The erotica I kept there, but moved the gaming books and New Age ones to remote corners of the store.

While I walked the kid over to the gaming section, newly printed in green marker in my horrible handwriting, I asked why he'd been blockaded before.

"Because Mrs. Cherryham said they were satanic and corrupted young minds. I think the only reason Mr. Winchester listened to her was because she has big hooters."

"...I see. Anything else I should know about outraged parents?"

The kid shrugged as he picked up one of the books and began thumbing through it.

"Dunno. Probably. Adults are weird. No offense."

"None taken. It's how these towns go, I suppose."

Another shrug and more book-paging. I was starting to feel awkward so I told him I'd be behind the counter if he needed anything.

Twenty minutes later, he came up with two books whose subject matter was Live-Action Role-playing.

"You LARP?"

"Not really. But I want to join the group that does. They're starting a new campaign soon. I hear there's actually girls that play."

I wanted to tell the kid he was going to be mighty disappointed. It didn't look like he was joining a Vampire LARP, where hot goth chicks, big-tittied or small, could at least be found. But why ruin it for him and risk losing a sale?

"That's cool. You know any of them?" I asked as I rung up his purchases.

"Probably."

"Any you like?"

"Don't know. I haven't played yet."

Fair point, I thought. We exchanged money and books now nestled in a plastic shopping bag from the local grocery store.

As he reached the door, he turned around.

"You should come play, too. Or at least watch."

"...Um... why?"

"So we can say we had an adult supervising. Nobody else will, and you're new, so it's not like you have a reputation to ruin yet."

...Little snot.

"I'll think about it."

[Izulde]

The pandemic struck with a vengeance before I could go and investigate the LARP the kid was talking about. He came in a week later to sulkily inform me that it'd been cancelled until further notice, and it could be months before it returned.



Likewise, the schools changed over to fully online instruction. Previously, it'd been that messiness called hybrid, which some of my customers would complain about to each other in different sections of the store. Me, they rarely spoke to beyond the necessity of asking where things were, the total of their purchases, and so on. Not that I minded. Odd as it may seem for someone involved in retail, I'm not overly fond of people in general. I see too little common sense, too much boasting, to be overly warm with all but a select few.



Speaking of those select few, I'd been to the diner once a week the past month and a half. Each time, I had a smiling waitress of dun hair and eyes. Good service and excellent food as that precious first time. But no Nichole G. I began to think that I'd perhaps hallucinated her - that she was a beautiful fever dream, a hallucination brought on by the pell-mell speed of my travel from west to east.



Then, one early Saturday morning, before I was due to open (Much as I wanted to, I couldn't financially afford to temporarily shutter - not even in the midst of the plague that raged through our town. All I could do was put up a "Masks Required" sign that a full 50% of them ignored and I didn't have the strength or courage to argue against. Not when I was so new), I found myself walking past the diner upon returning from a gas station stop for cigarettes.



What the hell, I thought to myself. Might as well go in. I missed supper here last night anyway.



My first sight was a table crowded with people - a grandfather, a grandmother, and two boisterous grandchildren no doubt thrilled to be having an early weekend meal with their heroes judging from the excited chatter of the pair.



Then I noticed a slender arm covered in a black sleeve. The dun waitress was rather thicker than that, so I allowed my eyes to travel up. Though her gaze was focused on sliding grandpappy his freshly filled coffee, I saw dark blue, and then a crown of blonde hair.



No loop funkiness this time. Rather, an A shaped tumbling of her hair, that due to its mid-level length as it framed either side of her face... Well, I'll be blunt. It looked like a poodle hairstyle. But from the way my heart fluttered, as it did so rarely once I passed into middle age at 30, I knew two things.



One: This was no fever dream.
Two: I was thoroughly and completely besotted.

You see, anyone can be attractive the first time you see them. Perhaps it's a favorite physical feature. Perhaps it's the novelty of a physical mannerism. Maybe it's the voice. But when someone is still so the second time you see them, well, hello and welcome to Crushland.



There was no outward sign of recognition when she came to my table. Makes sense. Last time I wore a hat and I had not yet let my salt and earth beard eat my face, as my BFF back West likes to snidely comment whenever I fall into hairy dissolution. But perhaps there was inner recognition. Nevermind.



Those eyes, darker than I remembered them, yet still blue, gazed into mine as she took my order of coffee and I found myself looking over the menu I'd completely forgotten the contents of (Fridays are fish-oriented here). A bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and a side of sausage links seemed to hit just the right morning mood.



Jangly-nerved, I proceeded to consume coffee, with periodic Nichole appearances for refills. I tried not to stare at her, though I was aware of her presence as she moved about the dining room. I fiddled with my phone, pretending to text people and scroll social media. I also wore a completely superfluous winter coat because I misjudged the morning's temperature.



I wanted to speak, to start a line of conversation. But I couldn't. I did, however, notice that she was not so fumble-fingered as our first meeting. In fact, not one clatter or crash did I hear. Maybe she got waitress training. Maybe I was an ephemeral resident of her memory and missed my chance.



The oatmeal bowl proved far bigger than I anticipated. Large enough to feed all four of the people at that first table. But I ate it all, no doubt looking like a great big honking pig.



Then I put my mask on, and I didn't realize until later that I'd put it on upside down. I can never go back. Also, I didn't have my card with me, so had to pay cash, and awkwardly asked for change - though of course I still tipped well. There was no broad smile and lowered eyes this time. Instead, a beat of silence, and then, "Have a good day," concern in her eyes. No doubt concern at the idiocy of my upside-down mask.



As I scurried out onto the street rather than the leisurely, controlled saunter I'd planned, two more thoughts occurred to me:

1. This never was going to be a thing unless I started talking.
2. I needed to shave. Badly.
3. She's a weekender.

That's three thoughts, not two. Nevermind. I'm getting back to the store and opening up. Hopefully no one comes in while I'm still gaspy-breathed like a beached whale-fish.

[Izulde]

Summer is gone. I wear three layers now. And as I said before, I can never tell ages.

Thus slipped away the physical warmth of the sun - by 5:00 pm, darkness is here - and the inner warmth as I contemplated a cheerful, rousing holiday season with Nichole G.

You can't, of course, imagine that I suddenly spoke to her and engaged in lively conversation. No - one week, while munching a bacon and lettuce sandwich (I hate tomato), I overheard her telling another diner that she actually liked virtual learning, but she was still looking forward to going back in-person because Homecoming already looked to be canceled and she didn't want to miss Prom in the spring.

When that revelation hit, I pushed away my food and asked for my bill, making up an excuse about expecting a books shipment when she was surprised I didn't eat all my food - a first. The rest of the day was turning the sign to Closed, shuttering the blinds, and hugging the office bathroom in a profusion of puking in either grief or unexpected food poisoning. Prison orange does not look good on me. And even as remarkably unattractive as I am, I'm still too pretty to end up in a shower of buggery.

You might think I'd surely stop my Saturday visits then. You'd be wrong. I continued to torture myself with the impossible, though at least now I didn't feel the pressure to try and make conversation. It was strictly the business of ordering, paying with 25% tip, and cursory exchange of "Have a good day" "You too" at the register. But then, my life is so rare in beauty outside of books, I suppose I take every opportunity possible to view it when I can in real life.

And, as I would later reflect in the weeks that followed, I'd never seen her once step foot in the shop. She wasn't a reader of books anyway, and she was gone Opening Weekend of deer hunting season - replaced by a too polite, too formal kid who looked a lot like the grumpy would-be LARP kid. That's a huge, honking red flag that it wouldn't have worked out anyway.

Mattie still comes in once a week, usually chittering away about people and events that I still have no earthly idea what she's referring to. The old saw about small towns and people getting to know everything about you hasn't been true so far to my experience. Granted, I've only been here two months and it's a pandemic period, but my social life still isn't any different than what it was in the desert metropolis I left. Not that I mind terribly, mind you - the peace and quiet here is a wonderful change. Even though it's snowed twice and we've yet to reach Thanksgiving.

Earlier this week, I tried signing up for the dating sites. At least there I knew I could avoid the pokey. Only to be met with horror - they were filled with middle-aged women who took selfies like 60 year old men who comment on photos of celebrities and Instagram models like the young women will respond to their skeezy selves. For a half-minute, I pondered even messaging a few of them, just for the ego stroke of response. Men don't get those very much on dating sites - even when you carefully choose your most picturesque and winsome photos like I do. And what few aging women didn't look like those old men selfies were so filter-heavy, I automatically added 20 pounds, 35 wrinkles, and 54 faded acne scars.

So that Hallmark movie about how the big city businessman moves to a small town and meets the cute, quirky younger woman who runs a bakery? So hasn't happened. We don't even have a bakery here - just some restaurants, one very average grocery store, a drug store, a ridiculous number of gas stations per capita because a state highway runs through downtown, and a few other odds and ends.

So I was feeling pretty bummed out this morning when I came downstairs from the upstairs apartment. A thick book sat on the counter titled The Saga of House ----- ; the dash was silver duct tape concealing the house name. I opened the front cover and blinked at the blue ink, handwritten inscription that greeted me:

"Barry,

Thought you might like to read this. Just know, you're not alone. Read the first few chapters. I'll see you next week.

-H."

Judging from the letter formation and cursive style, I suspected the sender was masculine, probably at least 35 or so given the actual use of cursive. I hear they don't teach it much in schools anymore - at least not to the point where it's everyday a thing.

Looks like I've got homework? Wonder why the name is covered.

[Izulde]

Candles flicker, illuminating the opaque darkness of my tiny apartment's living room. I've been listening to the Korean K.I.S.S.'s "Without You" on repeat loop for the past however I don't know how many hours. Strewn at my feet - empty bottles of Redd's Apple Peach and Redd's Apple. Apple by itself is chewier, denser - dark amber in color to the true yellow of Peach Apple. The yellow that keeps the memory summoned up transfixed in my mind. Mind is much nicer than brain, which is too biological. Too matter-of-fact.

I signed up for Match and OkCupid today, including the $30 or $28 or whatever fee added on top of Reply For Free, in vain hopes that it might entice replies. How much flew out my account? $90 between the two for the next 3 months? Something like that. Distractions you see, hopes that it might deter me from Nichole G. But it's not really about her when you dig deep, Herr Doktor Reader. Liesener? Mein Deutsch ist schlecht. Ich habe viele vergessen. Not forgotten is the past, the one who - if not top of mind - is always lurking in the Styxian subconscious, ready to surface at the slightest impetus. I could drown myself in the Lethe and my shade would still not blot her out.

And what, seem to ask the bobbing and bouncing candles stirred by a faint late autumn cold wind that seeps through the uncaulked window, is the instigator, the barreling alligator that brought back her memory to conscious, forefront, foregrounded attention?


Heyyyy... hoooo.. heeyyyy....

As I sit here and think,
about all that I'm missing

All that I'm missing oh yeah....
I've got everything that,
I could ever ask for. But you

An overseas friend, who himself found a wife further abroad, recommended two women - one from his wife's land of origin, the other from my own. Neither appealed in the least - I have very specific standards. Far too strict for a 2, admittedly, but damn it, I have tasted the glory of being with a 10. You don't understand... Wait, let me back up. No? Finish telling the beginning of the return? Oh, fine.

In any case, in politely telling him that I was going to keep looking, I went to her Facebook page to fetch pictorial evidence of the memory the next woman I date is competing against. Only to find her page completely locked down. Strange. So I Googled her.

Only to be slammed over and over with results that informed me she'd transferred her successful freelance writing career to an even more successful Instagram influencer career. That she became such a glittering light does not surprise me. Because... well... let me drink some more and move to back then.


All my past time is spent,
wondering how you've been

wondering how you've been oh yeah...
but the more that you're on my mind,
I'm just lonely and blue (can't you see)

17 years ago, during one of those lovely Midwestern summers that almost make living in this region worth it, sun, water, and fire entered my life in the form. Talented though I am, all I can conjure in my inebriation are inadequate clichés that diminish what she was and she is, even now when we're both in that stage of life that society calls middle-aged. Therefore let me simply say she was a golden-haired, blue-eyed model and a writer only a half-step below me in ability.

She fell for my mind and my writing, the same as every relationship before and the one since her. Remember, I am by any measure physically plain, if not outright ugly to the majority of women. So to have a young woman this stunning attracted to me... well... it's the type of paradise reserved only for the most elect of saints and martyrs. When you're someone like me, with someone like her, as I was during those incomparable months... your life completely changes. People treat you with much more respect and courtesy. Whereas previously I'd have been ignored or regarded lightly, suddenly attention was on me and I was taken seriously - really for the first time ever, outside of teachers who prized and encouraged my intellectualism.

We wrote together, co-crafting sagas and tales that spanned time and space, delighting in the brilliance of one another. Her technique was not as refined as mine (I'd dedicated years to development of my writing voice), but the raw talent, the ability that can never be taught or forced into being - that radiated from her as it did from me. Like attracted like in that sphere - a connection I've only had twice in my life. The other time is not important - it was when I was a teenager and didn't yet recognize my gift.

And of course, the bodily delights, which I will not dilute or profane the memory of by detailing here. I shall only remark that the bedroom interludes brought me to an unshakable belief in the Divine.


Why can't you be with me to hold me tight.
Just being with you
will make everything better and bright

I wanna have you by my side,
you always make it right.
(And without you my heart starts to cry)
How will I ever go on,
how will I stay strong?
(Do you see without you, my soul dies?)

The breakup - her decision and no fault of my own - devastated me. Worse yet, she still adored me. So we continued for another year in that foggy land of fondness and will-they/won't-they get-back-together that still pains me so much to this day that I can't watch it in film or TV without going into a roaring rage that careens into ceaseless crying. Then she went to a prestigious graduate school overseas while I wandered, broken, from school to school in the States - restless and wanting what I'd lost.

Since then, I've never heard from her, though I checked on how she was doing periodically - watched her ascension as a leading freelancer, which sparked self-hatred but was still controllable because it was journalism and I have long considered fiction my own private territory. But to watch her sail effortlessly from that to an even more glittering influencer career, awash in wealth and acclaim...

...I want to scream so that the world hears, "She was once mine!" Scream it again and again until it burns permanently in the long-term memory of everyone living, make it a fact that springs forth readily from their lips. To know that it happened, that we happened, and our journey should have continued together. We would have been one of those power pairings - culturally conquered the world.

She is still my only Muse, the only one who the thought of can pour blood and soul from mind to fingers and on to screen.

Were I to show anyone images of both side by side, eyebrows would lift, a murmur of shock at their *physical* similarity. Am I, to borrow from Nabokov, trying to break the first's spell by incarnating her in another? Well, not literally - remember, Hum had a minor justification - Anabelle died of typhus in Corfu. My Mercedes, (legal) Beatrice, (legal) Laureta yet lives - though I am certain she neither thinks of me nor perhaps might not even remember me if the question were put to her.

Which would be fitting.


I stayed up all night,
remembering what we had
And I can't sleep a wink,
cuz thinking of you makes me sad
(yes you do)

I can't seem to shake you off my mind...
Just wanna go back in time to just press rewind

I wanna have you by my side,
you always make it right.
(And without you my heart starts to cry)
how will I ever go on,
how will I stay strong?
(Do you see without you, my soul dies?)

You're all that I want, you're all that I need.
So why don't you come back. baby. Please


Fitting because what am I? A random bookseller in a pandemic, in an age of Amazon, in a town that most maps callously leave off - so insignificant it is.

I told somebody once that mediocrity is my greatest horror. But that's a lie. My greatest terror is obscurity, and I'm running out of town to prevent a life of such promise, potential, fizzling into mere dash line between two dates - not even worthy of a historical footnote.

And yet, I love her still, would love her even if she were dethroned, cast down into a momentary blip of social media stardom.

She is the girl's name I sing in every song with one. She's the inspiration for every female character I've ever written. She makes me want to be her equal again, as we once were.

But I have only scattered computer files of partially done novels, half-written short stories.

Even the duct-taped book beckoning me, written by some professor no one has ever heard of, speaks of a more accomplished life.

I'm tempted to toss into one of the candles in a spasm of drunken rage, to curse it to oblivion. But as I pick it up with that intention, the cover opens, and the inscription gazes up at me.

"Just know, you're not alone. Read the first few chapters. I'll see you next week.

-H."

...Fine, H. Fine. You cared enough to write that; I'll care enough to read.

[Izulde]

Small authorial update: I've won the Character Writer of the Week award for this dynasty/AAR on the Paradox Boards for Barry/The Narrator.

It's the second time I've won this one - the first time was 13 years ago for Melody in The Beautiful Girl and the History class.

[Izulde]

The first thing I notice is the gilt edge to the pages. Ostentatious, yes, but I've always liked gilded pages nonetheless.



I skim through the introduction before flipping to the first page and reading in earnest:

"One of the most interesting situations in medieval history was that faced by Lord Gwgan ap Meurig Seisyllwg, ruler of Ceredigion, which was composed of the baronies of Aberteifi and Aberystwyth, and Sir Gaerfyrddin. At 42 years old he was unmarried with no children, and had a brother-in-law who hated him. More importantly, a brother-in-law whose Gwynnedian armies almost doubled that of Gwgan's. And who coveted the bachelor's lands. While his sister Princess Angharad got on reasonably well with him, since she was his designated heir, Gwgan knew full well that no sibling affection would be enough to prevent Prince Rhodri II The Great from crushing him whenever his royalness felt like it.



Not an enviable situation, to be sure, and were the contemporary form of family holiday dinners in vogue back then, no doubt they would be full of tension.



Nor was Gwgan possessed of the wealth necessary to quickly bolster his army. The only thing he had to offer, amusingly enough in a world that sang the praises of feminine virginity, was his own pure self and the prestige of marrying a nobleman. To that end, he hurriedly sought a marriage that would come with a strong enough alliance to keep his brother-in-law from leaping on him.







A match was swiftly found - 23 year old Lady Engeltrudis Chatenois, daughter of Lord Adalhard, who ruled four counties and was in line to inherit three more. While not a formidable military power, there were enough troops combined between the newfound allies to give Rhodri pause - or so Gwgan hoped.

Further, Gwgan was able to convince his nephews who were given land by Rhodri to also ally - thereby providing the pretext to pursue a claim on Dyfed in the months after his son Geraint was born, the latter event neatly eliminating Angharad from immediate succession.

Unfortunately, it turned out that Prince Rhodri was allied with Dyfed and laughingly joined the war to smash his brother-in-law's ambitions, then followed up by invading and conquering Ceredigion after Lord Adalhard's death. More misfortune awaited when Gwgan tried to help a minor ally on the south coast of what is today Wales a few years later - only to end up imprisoned and eventually be ransomed at 49 years old, completely broke and ruling only Sir Gaerfyrddin.

Gwgan resolved to concentrate solely on family matters for the rest of his life - particularly the raising of Geraint, who looked to be a very promising steward even from a tender age."

There's more text, but I don't feel like reading anymore. Gwgan's life sounds as shitty as mine. I'd get a drink, but that would involve going to one of those hateful bars where people don't wear masks or to the gas station where the booze is overpriced.

Instead, I'll sit here and listen to the wind blow outside my upper apartment.

[Izulde]

It's a Thursday when I wake up the next morning. I don't drink much when I do, so no hangover. Nor will I see Nichole - she's Saturdays and Sundays only. And I don't much like the weekly girl. Not that there's anything wrong with her - she's perfectly fine as far as waitresses go. But she's not the one who soothes my spirit and calms my chaos.



You might think this is ridiculous. It's not. Ridiculous is finding shrimp and rat feces in your Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Silly, perhaps, but human hearts are often silly organs. I'm not awake yet. Need coffee. But I haven't bought a new coffeemaker. Oh, fine. I'll grab my book and go. Not that Molly talks to me - she doesn't - but a book will further discourage conversation.



A coffee and order of pancakes later, I'm reading while I wait for my food.



"Geraint was just 17 years old when he became Count, but the promise his father saw in him was realized sooner than anyone expected. A shrewd betrothal to the daughter of Alfred of Wessex gave the Seisyllwgs the type of powerful ally whose military might ensured eventual conquest of Dyfed - a feat that Gwgan failed at. Scottish lords attempted to conquer, but thanks to Alfred's support, the war ended inconclusively in 890.

In this same time period, the Principality of Gwynedd changed hands frequently as a result of various wars. This instability provided opening for the Danelaw to cleave the domain in two after a war of conquest - good for Geraint, bad for Welsh culture survivability:



As the above image notes, the already far more successful than his father Geraint opted to make Dyfed his primary title to represent the family's achievement of a long-held goal. The 22 year old, still a young man, also hoped that by making this political decision, the unrest might settle quicker in the county.

For a few years, things looked to be progressing smoothly... and then the Danelaw attacked.

There was no hope. The house was wiped out forever.

And yet, it was while researching the short-lived Seiswyllgs that I came upon another interesting family. And it's that which we'll explore in the next chapter."

Abrupt ending. As abruptly as Molly slaps down the bill - face-up of course, my having eaten during the course of reading.

I pay, exchange equally polite but disinterested "Have a nice days" and walk out.

Would that every day could be Saturday, Saturday, Saturday.