Thursday, December 1, 2011


Patti and I had a good trip to Havasu city yesterday. We bought six feeder gold fish and two fantails. we also got some ornaments that Patti wants me to hang in the Palo Verde tree on the patio. I got some spray foam to try and make a foam rock for the float on the water inlet to the pond. I have a float that has a hole in it so i filled it with foam. Then I wrapped it loosely in aluminum foil and squirted the foam into the foil. for some reason the foam didn’t harden. so I will have to try again today. If I can get the foam to work I will paint the thing with “Rock Paint”.

Patti told me this morning that one of the fan tails had died.


Okay, here is another couple of pages from the kings Cudgel


In his room, young prince Adrian Jackonia, of the small poor kingdom of North Morovenda, lies on his back on the lumpy straw filled mattress. Still in his traveling cloths divested only of his weapons and boots. His long slightly curved sword lay at his side and his double barreled flint lock pistol lay on the night stand. He isn’t expecting an attack but one can never know who might be prowling about these days or who might know of his quest and be out to thwart him, be it by murder or treachery or seduction.  A kingdom hangs in the balance.
A kingdom gained or lost by his actions alone.
Jack groans and rolls over on his stomach dislodging the sword and sending it clattering to the floor.
Startled by the noise, he jumps from the bed and almost upsets the night stand and candle as he grabs for the pistol.
With his heart pounding in his chest he listens to the sounds of the inn. After a bit he relaxes.
As he sits back on the bed his foot touches the sword hilt on the floor. He looks down.
“Oh crap! he groans, it was my sword falling that scared me. I really need to relax. Maybe some food and a glass of wine. “No,” he thinks, remembering Blossoms dirty feet. Maybe a beer would help. I wonder if they are serving supper yet.”
Just then as if on cue a loud clanging noise penetrates the remotest corners of the tavern.
“Must be the dinner bell,” Jack muses.
On the floor next to the night stand sits a wash basin and pitcher of tepid water.
Jack picks the sword up and set it on the bed behind him. Then setting the pistol next to it, he picks up the basin and sets it on the nightstand moving the candle to one corner. So as not to over flow and snuff out his meager light source, he carefully pours water from the pitcher into the bowl.
He scrubs his hands in the basin and splashes water on his face. He looks around for a towel of some sort but finding nothing, he wipes his hands and face on the inside of his traveling cloak. He peels off his smelly damp traveling clothes and slips into soft black goat skin trousers. He puts on a fine blue linen drop sleeve shirt that is open at the throat and belts it around his waste with a wide blue sash. On a gold chain around his neck hangs a ring of some kind of light weight metal. Inside the ring are three bars. One of the bars bisects the ring while the other two bars start at the middle of the first bar and join the ring at an angle. It looks more or less like a chicken foot in a circle.


The meaning of the symbol is lost to a ancient history but such medallions show up at street fairs and village marketplaces some times. Young nobles are fascinated by them and will pay a good price for one when they can find them. The medallions have become a kind of secret identification badge between young nobles throughout the country.
He puts on a tall pair of soft moccasins with a sheath on the inside of each. In each sheath he inserts a long sharp balanced blade that is as good for throwing as it is for slicing and dicing in a bar room brawl. Under the sash, he hides a small two barreled pistol.
The cap lock Derringer is a very rare piece. Unlike most of the firearms of the time, this one is newly manufactured by a genius gunsmith in Jack’s fathers employ. The caps for the ignition are almost imposable to find any where outside of his home and if they were to get wet they would be useless. Fortunately, Jack brought with him, a supply of caps in small waxed tins. He also had flints, powder and ball for both the big flint lock pistol and the tiny Derringer.
Jack stands up and shakes each leg so that his trouser cuffs slide down over the high moccasins, hiding the knives.
He pats the Derringer at his side and running his fingers through his long hair he opens the door and steps into the gloom of the hall. He turns around and using the large rusty key that Grenzelat had given him, he locks the door and slips the key into his sash.
Feeling along the wall, Jack makes his way to the ladder and climbs down without difficulty. Soon he is standing in the doorway to the main room of the inn. After the dark of his room and the hallway, his eyes are dazzled by the light of the many candles that have been lit on  the tables and fresh torches that have been added along the walls.
There are many more people in the inn now.
Several of the tables are occupied with diners. At others, one or two people sit in quiet conversation drinking and enjoying pipes.
Grenzelat is circulating around the room serving beer or wine and delivering orders of food.
Jack looks about, searching for a place out of the way to eat in obscurity.
His eyes meet with those of an old man with bright red hair, bushy red brows and fierce looking red beard. Before Jack can look away the old man beckons for Jack to join him.

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