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feast of drunken chicken here, the judicious clearing of a few local accounts there - have achieved the desired purpose, and secured a pavilion alongside Old Hawk's at the edge of the lake. In the water, rowboats lie idle as old musicians and minstrels sing their songs of love and loss. They are too far from shore to be seen clearly, which suits the wealthy families just fine, for if they were close enough, there would be an ongoing round of tsk-tsks at the sight of their sack-brown clothes, the gaps between their nub-like teeth. Nephew, you look handsome tonight, Uncle effuses. In his high-collared tunic, robes, and silk trousers, the would-be warrior chafes, but he has been especially filial these past few weeks, his reward for Uncle's assistance. 
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Look! There she is! Uncle points off to the forest, among the trees, where the young lady ventures, bold and alone, a single lantern marking her progress. The would-be warrior slaps his hands together, and with a deep breath, he strides into the forest, intent on his prey. Uncle twitters like an old hen at the sight of him passing, and the thought of what is to come. The would-be warrior trips over rocks and stones made unfamiliar by the night. Everywhere he looks, their pock-marked surfaces gape at him. Those philosophers rattle on, he muses, but different lands and worlds are with us every second. All it takes is the bending of light to dark, or some other small change, and we are lost. Fireflies weave into view, bringing the scent of honey, and without thinking he follows them,  |
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