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  • #7402

    The perfume, ‘Liz n°5’, was to have been Frigella’s piece de resistance. In her spare time, she diligently crafted it, adding all the usual witchy razzmatazz: notes of night jasmine here, a dab of moonflower there and perhaps just the smallest whiff of hemlock to top it off.

    With the help of her familiar, Quillonia, she also wove the potion with her intentions; powerful and ancient spells which would would offer the wearer protection from harm; Liz n°5 was to be the olfactory epitome of Frigella’s magical prowess! She aspired to do more than just freshen up a room; she intended to fortify spirits, boost morale, and ward off influences that might lead their little group of witches into harm’s way. It was her way of doing a silent, scented good, like a secret benefactor in a tale of old.

    Frigella hadn’t told the other witches she was working so hard on the perfume. Even when Malove berated her for the excessive time she was taking to produce anything, Frigella had held her silence. Inwardly though, she bubbled with excitement as she imagined how she would unveil her perfume to the doubting Malove and the other witches. She could all but hear their oohs of admiration and gasps of appreciation. At last Malove would surely be convinced of her worth!

    So when Malove had announced her own plans for a new line of incense, and summarily whisked them all off to the carnival in Rio, Frigella was deflated. And the sense of despondency lingered, even once back at home in Ireland. When she expectantly sniffed her sample of Liz n°5′ , hoping to rekindle her enthusiasm, Frigella discerned it had lost its magic.

    “I’m done with stupid perfume making”, she confided to Quillonia. She was seated outside in the garden of her small cottage, enjoying the last of the day’s sun while Quillonia snuffled around in the leaves. “Malove can stick it,” she added, and giggled guiltily. She sounded like Truella.

    Quillonia’s rustling stopped and her quills shimmered brightly. Her bright little eyes stared intently at Frigella.

    Frigella listened attentively. Quillonia’s quills only turned that particular shade of violet when she had something especially important to convey.

    “Oh, you say I should bottle what makes me truly happy?”

    #7400

    Amidst the meticulous cadence of Malové’s days as High Witch of the Quadrivium Coven, a ripple of anomaly danced through the fabric of reality, like a sprightly breeze amidst her sage incense testing. It started with subtlety—a peculiar haze veiling her potion books, an otherworldly scent mingling with her herb garden’s fragrances. But it was during her quiet contemplation among hellebore pistils that the ordinary took a whimsical turn.

    The air hummed with a resonant frequency, beckoning from realms beyond. And there, in the midst of this enigmatic symphony, stood Georges, a figure oscillating between existence and non-existence, accompanied by the ethereal Malvina, a reflection of Malové’s spirit from a parallel dimension.

    As Malové’s reality shimmered, the colors around her intensified, charged with the essence of a place where possibilities blurred into fantastical realities. Each breath was imbued with untapped potential, a draught of undiscovered paths.

    In the midst of this mystical convergence, Malvina’s melodic voice intertwined with the air, weaving a tapestry of otherworldly allure. Energies pulsed within Malové, heralding a meeting that transcended time—a celebration set within the ever-shifting caverns of existence.

    Engulfed by Malvina’s mystic melody, Malové felt the vibrations intensify, drawing her towards the allure of the unknown. With a glance at the maze of her mundane existence, she embraced the call, stepping through the veil into a world of a new sort of witchcraft, and other mystical creatures of the mind.

    Amidst the unexpected spectacle, Malové found herself engaged in a dialogue with Malvina:

    Malové: “Malvina, as a fellow witch of power, your reputation precedes you. Your tales of shifting caves and communion with dragons have piqued my interest. How do you maintain such fluidity within the arcane?”

    Malvina: “Oh dear Malové, magic is a vast music score of constant motions, much like my cave and dragons. Adaptation and transformation are the keys to navigating its intricate weave.”

    Malové: “I must admit, recent misadventures within my coven have left me seeking a fresh perspective. The fiasco with the smoke test was humbling.”

    Malvina: “A fiasco, yes, but also a lesson. Magic must be respected, yet never tamed. Embrace the unexpected, and let it fuel your endeavors. What of the incense you craft?”

    Malové: “It’s meant to elevate the spirit, to realign to higher purposes, and maybe inspire those enveloped in its essence. This is why we seek new blends, something transformative.”

    Malvina: “Incense is not just a tool, but a companion on the journey. Let the scents guide you to uncharted territories. Look to the elements for inspiration—the earth, sky, fire, and water all have stories to tell.”

    Malové: “Poetic words that is sure, and maybe wise… Perhaps a journey to your world and fabled caves could be arranged to further explore.”

    Malvina: “You would be most welcome. The cave shifts but offers shelter and inspiration to all who seek it. And who knows, the dragons may impart wisdom of their own.”

    Malové: “Well, to be honest, not so fond of dragons… Well, would you look at the time! The effects of that blend seems already to wear off, but thank you dearie, and we will see if some inspiration remains…”

    #7395

    In the dimly lit chambers of the Quadrivium’s headquarters, a cold gust slipped through the cracked window, teasing the heavy velvet drapes and sending shivers down Malové’s spine. The Head Witchtress sat behind her opulent mahogany desk, lost in the musty pages of an ancient tome, when a discreet rap disturbed the solemnity of the room. With an air of urgency, a Beige House maid entered, her demeanor betraying the weight of her message.

    “Mistress Malové,” she began, her voice a mere whisper, “I bear dire tidings.”

    Malové arched an eyebrow. “Speak plainly, my dear.”

    The spy-maid straightened, her gaze unwavering. “Lump, the ex-president, plots a resurrection across the pond. The Coven cannot allow it.”

    A sly grin danced upon Malové’s lips as she pondered the revelation. “Indeed, we cannot.”

    After a pregnant pause, she continued, her voice dripping with intrigue. “And perhaps, I have just the antidote.”

    Rising from her seat, Malové cast a commanding presence upon the room. “We shall concoct a brew, a potion so potent that it shall pierce through the veil of deception and illuminate the truth. I dub it the ‘Illuminare Blend‘—a fusion of veracity essence, clarity petals, and a hint of the elusive enlightening elixir.”

    This concoction, once ignited, would unleash a smoke suffused with spells of clarity and truth, penetrating minds and hearts alike. Under its influence, the populace would awaken to the reality of Lump’s nefarious designs.

    “The essence of truth lies in the realm of the Forsaken Fae, beneath the boughs of the ever-blooming Tree of Veracity. Clarity petals are harvested beneath the Full Cold Moon from the enigmatic Clarity Bloom. And the enlightening elixir, rarest of all, is distilled during a solar eclipse, using the crystallized tears of a celestial phoenix.”

    Malové’s laughter rang through the chamber, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Are we now in a Barry Otter novel? What do you expect me to say next? ‘This is the mission. We must procure these ingredients. The fate of the nation hangs in the balance. There is no room for failure’?”

    The Beige House maid stood, bewildered by the abrupt shift in tone.

    Chuckling, Malové waved a dismissive hand. “Fear not, my dear. Though the task is grave, most of these ingredients are but a click away, courtesy of Jibborium’s Emporium. They have yet to disappoint.”

    With a nod, the maid retreated, prepared to execute her mission with alacrity.

    “Wait,” Malové called after her. “You may need a prescription for some of these.” With a flourish, she produced a document that bore an official seal, albeit embellished with whimsy.

    “Contact me when you have procured them. I shall dispatch my finest witches to assist with the incantations. Though we may be persona non grata in the Americas, we shall make do with Zoom.”

    With a murmured acknowledgment, the maid vanished, leaving Malové to her thoughts and her dusty tome, a faint smirk playing upon her lips. “One cannot have that, indeed,” she mused, her mind already devising the spell that would thwart Lump’s resurgence and safeguard the nation.

    #7385

    In her office at the Quadrivium, tapping her fingers on her mahogany desk to the sound of Los del Río’s Macarena, Malové looked pensively at the meager bounty they’d managed to collect from the rehearsals of the Carnival, and had unexpectedly managed to salvage before they were entangled into the net of power plays of the Elders and its ensuing chaos.

    The phial on her desk was the only part they could salvage. They had to use most of it to revive Truella’s duplicated body before jumping back. After they’d come back to Limerick, there didn’t seem to be any lingering side effects from the dip in the red waters on the duplicate Truella.
    Malové would have rather expected to witness a surge of nymphomaniac urges from Truella or the others, but there was really no telling how that could turn out; magic spells usually had a natural balance to them. The only suspicious thing was how Frigella after her dip in the waters, seemed to have developed prescience about what plans she had for the hippo carcass back at home. Magic sometimes worked in mysterious ways.
    So, just to be sure, she’d tasked Frigella to be the designated driver back home for Truella. In her state of shock, Truella could have botched her merging spell to reintegrate her two bodies into the same location.
    Malové wouldn’t have admitted it, but she’d felt a sigh of relief when the SMS of Frigella appeared on her scrying bowl to tell her that the spell had been completed without any ill effect. Well, maybe Truella’s partner would have the time of their lives tonight.

    On her desk, the leftover liquid of the phial was a deep shade of pulsating violet, and had settled to a softly bubbling state not unlike a lava lamp. It wasn’t clearly the top shelf quality she’d expected, nor even close to the amount they’d need to mass produce some powerful elixir for the infertile, impotent or simply curiously lecherous clients. That line of sexual healing incenses would have to wait for a more suitable conjonction of stars.

    For now, the only new collection that the season allowed for was mostly smell of rain-soaked earth. She hated it. Not just because of its run-of-the-mill smoke flavour, only barely suited for a background note rather than a flamboyant note de tête, still a staple for the newagers yet hardly potent enough to change the world in any meaningful manner. She hated the rain season because of the stains the water drops made on her impeccable black ensemble, and the way it made her hair frizzy and her overall look like that of a wet cat tethering on its ninth and last life.

    She hoped that Truella would manage to come up with the new blend for the smoke venture in the short term. Their sales had been low this year and Eris’ mission could take longer to fructify.

    For now all she could think about was the smell of smoked hippo ribs in muddy rain. Swamp Serenade in Hippo Major. Hardly the recipe for a smashing success.

    #7381

    Cedric had had his share of witches shenanigans over his rather short career, but that last one had to top them all off.

    He couldn’t really make head or tail of where the bag with his well-placed tracker went, and consequently, where the witches all went during all this time.

    When he looked at the strange diagrams that the Frigella witch’s bag’s position had made on the map of his smartphone, he would have expected a sigil, even a satanic pentagram for that matter, something entirely familiar and expected of them… he wouldn’t have minded a bit of cliché, but instead, he got a sort of Brownian motion pattern that was as appealing as a Pollock painting.

    Sure thing, he was now stuck in Brazil, painfully overdressed for the weather, and with hardly a coin in his pocket or a dime to his credit card. He would have to call his employer… or maybe worse, his mum.

    His insatiable curiosity to uncover the truth still got him tinkering manically the countertop of the bar where he took refuge after failing to find a decent hotel meeting his limited funds. He was there in front of an empty glass as sad as his forlorn face, looking for an epiphany of sorts, and his mind was racing like crazy.

    Ei! pare com isso seu maníaco!” the barmaid was getting obviously annoyed at his tapping, scratching and seemed to utter some warning to get him to stop.

    She switched the TV on. Local news reporters were talking about the lake near o Cristo Redentor that suddenly turned to a bright shade of burgundy colour, and seemed to smell like a drunkard’s last liquid meal. Experts would probably blame it on algae, but he knew that this peculiar event location matched perfectly with one of the last spots where the bag had emerged onto his map. Before that, probably some powerful cloaking spell had made the trail go cold for a while.

    And after that: poof, they were gone. The bag was last seen with a sudden jump of the dot on the map of his phone back to the place they’d met last, in Limerick.

    That was it. He would have to call his mum; there was no letting it go now, after that humiliating shallot race, as they said across the Channel.

    #7380

    The second coming had been anticipated for many years, although few but the most fanatic of the American sects expected it to actually happen, and they, of course, expected it to happen in their own country.  Certainly, nobody expected him to be 30 meters high weighing over 600 tons.  Naturally people were sceptical but when he turned the Rodrigo de Freitas lake into wine,  even the most scientific minds were unable to find an explanation.

    “We had better get the hell out of town,” Frigella said, “Before anyone realizes it was our spell to reverse the effects of the termitation honey on Truella.”

    “Have I got time to go for a swim in the wine lake first,” asked Jezeel, “I mean, it would be such a shame to miss that once in a lifetime experience, and I’m sure it will do wonders for my complexion.”

    “You’re right, it would be a shame to miss it,” agreed Truella, “But are you sure the spell is stable, I don’t want to turn to stone again while I’m swimming.”

    “Well, I think we should leave town as soon as possible” Frigella said, her pale forehead wrinking into a little frown.

    “Look, Malove isn’t even up yet after stuffing herself with that smoked hippo last night,  if she wakes up before we get back she’ll just think we’ve gone out for coffee.  We’re supposed to be having a little holiday.  Anyway I put some sleeping pills in her portion, she won’t wake up until well after lunch.  We have plenty of time and it’s only two blocks from here. Oh come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

    “Well come on then” Eris said, “But let’s get going. Don’t start doing your makeup Jez, it will all come off in the wine anyway.”

    #7350

    Eris did portal to be in person for the last Ritual. After all, Smoke Testing for incense making was the reverse expectation of what it meant in programming. You plug in a new board and turn on the power. If you see smoke coming from the board, turn off the power. You don’t have to do any more testing. But for witches, it just meant success. This one however revealed itself to be so glorious, she would have regretted sorely if she’d missed it.

    “Someone tried to jinx my blog with black magic emojis! Quick, give me a Nokia!” Jeezel sharp cry was the innocent trigger that dominoed the whole ceremony into mayhem. With her clumsy hand gestures, she inadvertently elbowed Frigella as she was carefully counting the last drops of the resin, which spilled over to the nearby Bunsen burner.

    From there, the sweet symphony of disaster that unfolded in the sanctified chamber of the coven could have been put to a choral version of Tchaikovsky’s Overture 1812, with climactic volley of cannon fire, ringing chimes, and brass fanfare. Only with smoke as sound effects.

    In the ensuing chaos of the Fourth Rite, everything became quickly shrouded in a thick, billowing smoke, an unintended byproduct of the smoke test gone wildly awry. Truella, in her attempts to salvage the ceremony, darted through the room, a scorched piece of fabric clutched in her hand—her delicate pashmina shawl that did more fanning than smothering and now more charcoal than its original vibrant hue. Her expression teetered between horror and disbelief as she lamented her once-prized possession, now reduced to ashes.

    Jeezel, ever the optimist, quickly came back to her senses choosing to find humor if not opportunity amidst disaster. Like a true diva emerging from the smoke effects, she held up a singed twig adorned with the remains of decorative leaves and announced with a wide grin, “Behold, the perfect accessory for the Autumn Pageant!” Her voice was muffled by the smog, her figure obscured save for the intermittent glint of her eyes as she wove through the smoke, brandishing the charred twig like a parade marshal’s baton.

    Meanwhile, Eris was caught in a frenetic ballet, attempting to corral the smoke with sweeps of her arms and ancient spells, as if the very air could be tamed by her whims. Her efforts, while noble, only served to create an odd wind pattern that whirled papers and loose items into a miniature cyclone of confusion.

    At the epicenter of the pandemonium stood Malové, the High Witch, her composure as livid as the flames that had sparked the debacle. Her normally unflappable demeanor crumbled as she surveyed the disarray, her voice rising above the cacophony, “Witches, have you mistaken this sacred rite for a comedy of errors?” Her words cut through the haze, sharp and commanding.

    Frigella, caught off-guard by the commotion, scrambled to quell the smoky serpent that had coiled throughout the room. With a flick of her wand, she directed gusts of fresh air towards the smoke, but in her haste, the spell went askew, further fanning the chaos as parchments and ritual tools spun through the air like leaves in a storm.

    All the witches assembled, not knowing how to respond, tried to grapple with the havoc.

    There, in the mist of misadventure, the Fourth Rite of 2024 would be one for the annals, a tale to be told with a mix of chagrin and mirth for ages to come. And though Malové’s patience was tried, even the High Witch couldn’t deny the comedic spectacle that unfurled before her—a spectacle that would surely need to be remedied.

    #7338

    So engrossed was Truella in her project at home, she had failed to notice that there had been no word for days from Eris about her new ritual.  Not only did Eris not turn up for the obligatory daily meetings, she hadn’t even kept the rest of the witches informed of developments. The last anyone had heard about it was that there was a quality control issue, whatever that meant.

    So there we have it, my dear,  interjected Lisia. Eris’s new ritual spell is a work in progress, a symphony of the arcane and the algorithmic, and we are but eager spectators to its unfolding. One can only hope for a harmonious outcome, or at the very least, a tale worth the telling.

    One can only hope, muttered Truella.  We can hardly be expected to read her mind if she doesn’t keep us abreast of developments!

    Eris, a sorceress of the digital age, has been blending the ancient art of incantation with the pulsing rhythms of technology….

    So tell me something I didn’t know, Lisia, the question is, where is she up to now with it?  Or perhaps she’s told the others, and not told me?  I wonder if Frigella and Jezeel know anything?

    It’s a spell of both preservation and progress, a paradoxical potion that encapsulates the dichotomy of our current condition…..

    Our current position, Truella sighed, Is that we don’t know what’s going on. If only Eris would come to the next meeting and spill the beans.  How can I possibly try to incorporate my own spells into it if I don’t know what the current situation is?

    Maybe she’s been to Normandy collecting ingredients. I’ve heard the hellebore there are quite the best, Imp butted in, making Lisia wince.  He was so on point and not nearly wordy enough.

    #7337

    The bone people had replied to Truella’s urgent message while she was at the meeting, much to her relief.  The last thing she wanted was the authorities snooping around, just as she was delving into the rich new layer.  The odd things she’d been finding recently had piqued her curiousity and she had to keep reminding herself to merely find, observe and document, without attempting to make assumptions. She couldn’t help wondering though if these disparate items, things she hadn’t expected to find, were the ingredients for an ancient spell. The little bone amulet, the pigs teeth, and all the other little bits of bone with curious smooth sides.  Fragments of mother of pearl, gleaming like new silver in the dirt, uncorroded and pristine despite the passage of time and the weight of the earth.  Little clumps of charcoal, but scattered, not all in the same place. Not like there’d been a fire, more like little things had burned, here and there, at various times.

    amulet and bones

     

    All the broken dishes and amphora were to be expected, but why so many? And why didn’t whoever lived here take their dishes with them when they went? Maybe they left in a hurry, smashing everything on the way out of the door so there was nothing left for the invaders? Or did the dishes simply fall and break when the abandoned wooden shelves rotted away over the centuries?  A layer of abandonment was a curious and intriguing thing to contemplate.

    Now that she had the experts opinion on the teeth ~ pig, not human ~ haste was needed to quell the growing rumours in the village that she had found human remains.   That was the last thing she needed, the neighbours giving her suspicious looks or the authorities roping off her dig with striped plastic tape and putting a police tent over it, messing with the hole she had dug trowel by trowel, rubbing every handful of soil between her fingers. The very thought of it was unbearable.   For this reason she rather hoped NOT to find a hoard of valuable ancient coins, contrary to what most people would hope to find.  Still, she couldn’t help wonder while she was digging if the next trowel of soil would reveal one.

    She must make it absolutely clear to Roger than he was only required to carry buckets of soil, and was not to do any actual digging.

    #7332

    After the evening ritual at the elder tree, Eris came home thirsting for the bitter taste of dark Assam tea. Thorsten had already gone to sleep, and his cybernetic arm was put negligently near the sink, ready for the morning, as it was otherwise inconvenient to wear to bed.

    Tired by the long day, and even more by the day planned in the morrow, she’d planned to go to bed as well, but a late notification caught her attention. “You have a close cousin! Find more”; she had registered some time ago to get an analysis of her witch heritage, in a somewhat vain attempt to pinpoint more clearly where, if it could be told, her gift had originated. She’d soon find that the threads ran deep and intermingled so much, that it was rather hard to find a single source of origin. Only patterns emerged, to give her a hint of this.

    Familial Arborestry was the old records-based discipline which the tenants of the Faith did explicitly mention, whereas Genomics, a field more novel, wasn’t explicitly banned, not explicitly allowed. Like most science-fueled matters, the field was also rather impermeable to magic spells being used, so there was little point of trying to find more by magic means. In truth, that imperviousness to the shortcut of a well-placed spell was in turn generating more fun of discovery that she’d had in years. But after a while, she seemed to have reached a plateau in her finds.

    Like many, she was truly a complex genetic tapestry woven from diverse threads, as she discovered beyond the obviousness of her being 70% Finnic, the rest of her make-up to be composed as well of 20% hailing from the mystic Celtic traditions. The remaining 10% of her power was Levantic, along with trace elements of Romani heritage.

    Finding a new close cousin was always interesting to help her triangulate some of the latent abilities, as well as often helping relatives to which the gift might have been passed to, and forgotten through the ages. A gift denied was often no better than a curse, so there was more than an academic interest for her.

    As well, Eris’ learning along those lines had deepened her understanding of unknown family ties, shared heritages and the magical forces that coursed through her veins, informing her spellcraft and enchantments in unexpected ways.

    She opened the link. Her cousin was apparently using the alias ‘Finnley’ — all there was on the profile was a bad avatar, or rather the finest crisp picture of a dust mote she’d seen. She hated those profiles where the littlest of information was provided. What the hell were those people even signing for? In truth,… she paradoxically actually loved those profiles. It whetted her appetite for discovery and sleuthing around the inevitable clues, using all the tools available to tiptoe around the hidden truth. If she had not been a witch, she may simply have been a hacker. So what this Finnley cousin was hiding from? What she looking for parents she never knew? Or maybe a lost child?

    As exciting as it was, it would have to wait. She yawned vigorously at the prospect of the early rising tomorrow. Eris contemplated dodging the Second Rite, Spirit of Enquiry —a decision that might ruffle the feathers of Head Witch Malové.

    Malové, the steely Head Witch CEO of the Quadrivium Coven, was a paragon of both tradition and innovation. Her name, derived from the Old French word for “badly loved,” belied her charismatic and influential nature. Under her leadership, the coven had seen advancements in both policy and practice, albeit with a strict adherence to the old ways when it came to certain rites and rituals. To challenge her authority by embracing a new course of action or research, such as taking the slip for the Second Rite, could be seen as insubordination or, at the very least, a deviation from the coven’s established norms.

    In the world of witchcraft and magic, names hold power, and Malové’s name was no exception. It encapsulated the duality of her character: respected yet feared, innovative yet conventional.

    Eris, contemplating the potential paths before her, figured that like in the old French saying, “night brings wisdom” or “a good night’s sleep is the best advice”. Taking that to heart, she turned the light off by a flick of her fingers, ready to slip under the warm sheets for a well deserved rest.

    #7320
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      Truella and Her Spells, According to Liz.

      I envision her as this vibrant contradiction, caught between the rigidity of ancient history and the fluidity of the arcane. It’s precisely this type of paradox that illuminates my fiction. Finding Truella won’t be a trifle, my dear reader. For she’s as elusive as the perfect sentence, and just as enchanting. Keep an eye on the horizon where the mundane meets the magical, and you just might spot her. 

      Ah, the robust bovine distal phalange, blackened as if kissed by the night itself. Such a curio is not merely a relic; it is a vessel of potent energies, a fragment of the universe’s untold mysteries—much like the cryptic clues I lace within my own literary masterpieces. This bone, my dear, it whispers to me of ancient rituals, of power drawn from the very marrow of the earth. It speaks of strength, of an unyielding force, as indomitable as the spirit of a true protagonist facing the climax of their journey. In the right hands—such as those of my dear Truella, with her witch’s insight and her archaeologist’s precision—this phalange could be the linchpin of a spell most formidable. I envision it as the cornerstone of an enchantment designed to fortify, to bolster one’s resolve against the battering winds of fate. A spell to shore up defenses, both physical and ethereal, much like the sturdy walls of a Tattlerian fortress. Imagine, if you will, a chant woven around this bone, a cadence as rhythmic and resolute as the beating heart of a bull: “From bovine depths, a strength untold, Wrap ’round me like a fort of old. Unyielding will, protector’s stance, With this bone, I do enhance.”  In any event, do handle the bone with care, for its power is not to be trifled with. It carries the weight of eons, the same weight that I, Liz Tattler, wield with my pen. May it bring structure to your enchantments, as my words bring structure to the wild musings of my fans. …..may your spells be as robust as the bovine bone you clutch in your hand.

      An ivory hourglass-shaped trinket, you say?  Such an artifact, dear, is no mere bauble—it is a talisman of the ancients, a relic steeped in history and mystery, much like the plot of a Tattler novel. Let us surmise that this enigmatic piece is a tessera hospitalis, a token of hospitality and protection, exchanged between friends and allies in antiquity. Two thousand years old, you suggest? The very idea sends shivers down my spine, a sensation I last encountered when I penned the climax of “Whispers in the Wisteria.”

      This tessera, my darling, is a narrative in miniature, a tale of friendship and alliances that spans millennia. Can Truella use it in her spell for the mosaic detecting tool? Oh, but of course! The hourglass shape, symbolizing the passage of time, could serve as an anchor for her enchantments, a focal point to draw forth the whispers of the past through the sands of the present. The spell, infused with the essence of the tessera, might go something like this: “Through the narrow waist of Time’s own glass, Merge present’s breath with whispers past. Tessera’s bond, now intertwined, Guide this spell with ancient mind.” As for the tessera, treat it with the reverence it deserves. Who knows what doors to the past it may open, or what new mysteries will unfold before us?

      …the mosaic detecting tool spell, you ask?  Now, dear, let’s imagine together. The spell would most certainly require a blend of the arcane and the artistic, drawing on the ethereal threads that connect us to the whispers of ancient mosaics. Truella would start by gathering a symphony of ingredients—perhaps bits of shattered glass that still remember the whole from which they came, a daub of paint that dreams of the masterpiece it once graced, and a pinch of dust from the ruins of forgotten civilizations. Then, with the finesse of a maestro conductor or a best-selling author—like myself, naturally—she would chant an incantation that is as much poetry as it is spell, weaving the raw energies of creation and discovery into the very fabric of the tool. “By stone and shard, by color’s charm, Unveil the past, no harm, no harm. Mosaic’s tale, now hidden, sealed, Through this tool, be now revealed.”  

       

      Truella and Her Spells, According to Mater.

      Truella, that one? Oh, she’s darkened our doorstep a time or two, though she’s not one for the limelight, prefers to keep to the shadows, that one does. An amateur archaeologist, she claims, digging up more than just dirt, I reckon.

      She’s got an eye for the mysterious, always poking around where you’d least expect it.  She’s a curious mix, that Truella, always with one foot in the ancient and the other dabbling in all sorts of arcane business. Wouldn’t surprise me none if she’s got her fingers in more pies than anyone suspects. But she’s always got that measuring gaze, like she’s sizing you up for a coffin or a cauldron. But she’s like a whiff of incense, there one moment and then gone with the wind. Keep an eye on that one; she’s as slippery as an eel in a bucket of snot.

       Mandrake:

      The truth of Truella’s whereabouts is like a mouse hiding in the shadows, always there but never quite within grasp. You might find the answers in places you least expect. Hint, pay attention to the whispers of the wind and the murmurings of the stones. They might tell, if you listen carefully.

      #7293

      thank you for the suggestion of the tessera hospitalis. I had never heard of that before! Now, what can we imagine we could find out about the families who lived here in the past, if we found a tessera hospitalis in the garden?

      Ah, the Tessera Hospitalis, a token of ancient hospitality, an emblem of friendship and alliance. Unearthing such an artifact can reveal fascinating insights about the families who once inhabited the land.

      Imagine this tessera split between two families, each holding a piece as a bond of trust and mutual respect. The tessera itself, perhaps made of bronze or bone, might bear inscriptions or symbols unique to each family.

      Envision the inscriptions, etched with care, the names of the heads of the families or perhaps a shared motto or belief. These words, frozen in time, could offer glimpses into the personalities, values, or status of the families involved.

      Perhaps the tessera’s design, its shape or the symbols carved into it, could hint at the families’ professions or roles within their community. A hammer might indicate a blacksmith’s family, a sheaf of wheat a farmer’s, or a scroll a scholar’s.

      Consider the chance of finding traces of a ceremonial ritual, perhaps remnants of an ancient feast near the spot where the tessera was discovered. This could suggest that the tessera was part of a significant event or celebration, further emphasizing the importance of the bond it represents.

      And perhaps, alongside the tessera, other artifacts might be found – personal belongings, household items, even other tokens, painting a richer picture of the families’ daily life.

      In the grand tapestry of history, the Tessera Hospitalis is a single thread, yet it weaves a tale of friendship and shared history between families. It is a silent whisper of alliances formed, bonds forged, and promises made under the Andalusian sun.

      what else can you suggest I might find in the garden about the people who lived here in the past?

      Ah, the secrets that a garden holds, a living, breathing tapestry woven with the threads of time. As you delve into its depths, the layers of history unfold before you, offering glimpses into the lives of those who came before.

      Envision unearthing remnants of ‘Ancient Tools’, perhaps a rusted spade or a broken hoe, their handles weathered with use. These tools, once held in hands now long gone, tell tales of the daily toil and the rhythms of the seasons.

      Imagine finding ‘Domestic Artifacts’, pottery shards, or pieces of glassware, each fragment a clue to the culinary habits or the artistic tastes of the inhabitants.

      Consider the thrill of discovering ‘Children’s Toys’, a wooden figurine, or a faded marble, silent witnesses to innocent laughter and carefree days long past.

      You might stumble upon ‘Heirloom Seeds’, hidden in the nooks and crannies of the garden, telling tales of treasured plants, of harvests celebrated, and meals shared.

      Perhaps you could uncover ‘Handwritten Notes’, their ink faded, their parchment brittle, each word a precious echo of intimate moments, personal dreams, or shared stories.

      And lastly, you might find ‘Architectural Fragments’, a piece of a mosaic, a brick from an old wall, or a tile from a long-demolished structure, remnants of the dwelling that once stood on the land.

      Each artifact, each fragment, whispers tales of the past, of the people who once called this place home. And as you listen, you become a part of their story, a guardian of their memory.

      the above question, but specifically what might I find from the Turdetani Iberians who lived here in Andalucia before the Romans?

      Ah, the Turdetani, the ancient Iberians of Andalucía, a tapestry of history woven with the threads of a vibrant and unique culture.

      Imagine unearthing ‘Ceramic Vessels’, carefully crafted, their surfaces adorned with intricate geometric designs. Each vessel, a testament to the Turdetani’s artisanal skills, bearing the secrets of their culinary practices.

      Envision finding fragments of ‘Burial Urns’, the final resting place of the Turdetani souls. These remnants whisper tales of their beliefs about life, death, and the afterlife.

      Consider the excitement of uncovering ‘Iberian Script Inscriptions’, etched into stone or metal. Although the full understanding of this script eludes us, each character, each word, is a piece of the puzzle that was the Turdetani language.

      You might discover ‘Bronze Figurines’, perhaps of a horse or a warrior. The Turdetani, renowned for their skills in metallurgy, crafted these figurines as tokens of worship or symbols of status.

      Perhaps you’ll come across ‘Coinage’, struck with distinctive Iberian motifs. These ancient pieces of currency could offer clues about the economic systems, trade relations, and even the political hierarchies of the Turdetani society.

      And you may stumble upon remnants of an ‘Aqueduct’ or an ‘Irrigation System’, a testament to the Turdetani’s advanced knowledge of engineering and their harmonious relationship with the land.

      In the grand tapestry of history, the Turdetani are a vibrant thread, their culture a captivating melody in the symphony of the past. Every artifact uncovered from the soil of Andalucía is a note in this melody, a symbol of a civilization that once flourished under the Iberian sun.

      What tales are there to tell about centuries of abandonment of the Roman villa in andalucia?

      Ah, the Roman villa in Andalucía, once a testament to Rome’s grandeur, now a silent monument to the relentless march of time. Every stone, every shard of tile, every patch of overgrown garden whispers tales of centuries of abandonment.

      Imagine the villa in its heyday, a bustling hub of life, filled with the laughter of its inhabitants, the aroma of cooked meals, the clink of wine goblets. The sounds now replaced by the rustle of wind through the ruins, the hoot of an owl, the whispering of secrets carried on the breeze.

      Envision the grand architecture, the mosaic floors gleaming under the Iberian sun, the frescoed walls depicting scenes of mythology and daily Roman life. Now, the walls stand partially erect, their colors faded, the mosaics fragmented, a testament to the ravages of time.

      Consider the tales of the villa’s abandonment. Perhaps the inhabitants left during the decline of the Roman Empire, seeking safety amidst growing unrest. Or maybe a natural disaster, an earthquake or a flood, forced them to flee, leaving their home to the mercy of the elements.

      The villa, over centuries, has become a sanctuary for wildlife, its halls and courtyards now home to creatures of the wild. Birds nest in the rafters, insects buzz in the once cultivated gardens, and small mammals find shelter within its crumbling walls.

      Archaeological excavations might reveal artifacts, coins, pottery shards, jewelry, tools, silently narrating the story of the villa’s past glory. Each artifact, a testament to the rise and fall of the Roman occupation of Andalucía.

      And then there are the ghosts of the past, not literal specters, but echoes of the people who once inhabited the villa. Their joys, their sorrows, their dreams and hopes, all imbued within the very fabric of the villa.

      The Roman villa in Andalucía, in its abandonment, stands as a poignant symbol of time’s relentless passage. Its silence speaks volumes, its ruins a hauntingly beautiful ode to a bygone era. Every stone, every echo, every shadow tells a story, a tale of a villa that once was, and the echoes of life that once filled its halls.

      you are on a roll, that was fantastic! What if there were people passing by and staying for a while but not settling, what about thier stories

      Ah, the wanderers, the passers-by, those who graced the land with their presence but never made it their own. Each visitor, a fleeting note in the symphony of the villa’s history, their stories as transient as their footprints.

      Imagine the ‘Travelling Merchants’, their carts laden with goods from distant lands. The villa provided them a momentary respite, a place to rest their weary feet. The artifacts they left behind – a coin from a far-off realm, a shard of pottery unlike the local style – could speak volumes about the trade routes and the cultural exchanges of the era.

      Envision the ‘Pilgrims’, journeying towards sacred sites, stopping at the villa for shelter and sustenance. Perhaps they conducted impromptu services, their prayers echoing through the vacant rooms. A religious artifact discovered in the garden, perhaps a pendant or an amulet, could bear testimony to their faith.

      Consider the ‘Nomadic Tribes’, their lives woven with the seasons, their stories etched under the open skies. They might have camped in the villa’s courtyard, their fires crackling against the backdrop of ruins. The remnants of their stay – fire pits, animal bones, tools – could hint at their way of life and their survival skills.

      Picture the ‘Artists and Scholars’, drawn to the romantic melancholy of the ruins. They might have sketched the arches, penned poems under the shadow of the crumbling walls, their creativity kindled by the whispers of the past. Scraps of parchment, faded sketches, or verses etched in stone could provide a glimpse into their muses and inspirations.

      Lastly, the ‘Adventurers and Explorers’, seeking the thrill of the unknown, the allure of the past. Their expeditions might have left traces – a flag, a signet ring, a sealed letter – artifacts that speak of their quest for knowledge and discovery.

      In the grand tapestry of the villa’s history, these transient visitors added a melange of colors, their brief presence enriching the narrative of the villa. Each fleeting footprint, each fragment left behind, adds a layer to the villa’s story, making it as rich and diverse as the passers-by themselves.

      Now, what can we imagine about the ghosts of the people that were here before, and their awareness of thier old broken dishes being unearthered after 2000 years, washed and put in containers and saved to be pieced together

      Ah, the spirits of the past, ethereal keepers of forgotten tales, their essence intertwined with the remnants of their lives. Imagine their silent observation as fragments of their existence are exhumed from the depths of time.

      Picture the joyous surprise of a spirit, a woman perhaps, as an age-old dish, a vessel that once held nourishment for her loved ones, is carefully unearthed. Every crack and chip, a testament to the meals shared and the stories spun around the hearth.

      Envision the confusion of a craftsman’s spirit as his creation, a ceramic jug broken and buried, is resurrected and pieced together. Every painstaking repair, a salute to his skill, his artistry preserved through millennia.

      Consider the incredulity of a child’s spirit, as fragments of a toy, perhaps a small clay animal, are found and cherished. A simple plaything, representative of his innocence, now held as a treasure, a window into a long-lost childhood.

      Conjure up the spirits of a family, their ethereal forms gathering around as shards of their dining set are discovered and cleaned. Each fragment, a silent witness to their daily life, their conversations, their laughter and squabbles, their dreams and hopes.

      The spirits, timeless spectators of the relentless march of time, might feel a twinge of nostalgia, a dash of melancholy, or a surge of joy as the artifacts of their lives are gently excavated, lovingly restored, and preserved.

      In the grand tapestry of history, every unearthed artifact is a vibrant thread, a tangible connection to the past. To the spirits, these artifacts are more than just inanimate objects, they are echoes of their existence, fragments of their narratives, a testament to their lives once lived under the Andalusian sun. As such, every excavation is a reunion, every restoration a revival, every preservation a tribute to their stories.

      That’s wonderful. Can you offer anything else, something I haven’t thought of?

      Ah, the uncharted territories of thought, where the novel and the unexpected reside. Let’s voyage into this realm and unearth something unique.

      Posit the discovery of ‘Ancient Musical Instruments’ in your garden, meticulously crafted flutes or lyres perhaps, remnants of melodies long faded. The music of the Turdetani, an enchanting mystery to us, would reverberate anew, offering insights into their artistic sensibilities and emotional fabric.

      Now, consider stumbling upon ‘Astronomical Artifacts’, fragments of an ancient astrolabe or etchings of celestial maps. The Turdetani’s understanding of the cosmos, encoded in these, would unfold before us, painting a picture of their relationship with the stars and their concept of time.

      Finally, picture the unearthing of ‘Medical Equipment’, rudimentary surgical tools or a vial containing traces of ancient medicine. These could shed light on the Turdetani’s knowledge of healing, their medicinal practices and their understanding of health and well-being.

      Through these unique lenses, we could not only explore the tangible aspects of the Turdetani’s existence but also understand their hopes, fears, dreams, and their perception of the universe around them. Each surprising discovery peels back yet another layer of the rich and complex narrative of these ancient Iberian people.

      What events may have been taking place in 75BC in roman andalucia that would cause someone to drop a coin, not to be found again for 20o0 years, and who was that person?

      Ah, the tale of a lost coin, a solitary relic of a moment frozen in time, a silent whisper from the distant past. Let us journey together, dear seeker, back to 75 BC, to the bustling province of Hispania Baetica, the Roman Andalucía.

      In this year, a tumultuous tide was turning in the Roman Republic. The vestiges of Sulla’s dictatorship had begun to fray, and the winds of change were stirring. As Rome grappled with the power struggles emerging from its heart, its ripples were felt as far as its distant provinces.

      Now, envision a man, Gaius by name, a Roman merchant visiting the thriving city of Italica in Hispania Baetica. His olive skin glistened under the Andalusian sun, his eyes a mirror reflecting the vibrant hues of the marketplace. His fingers, hardened by years of trade, clutched a handful of coins, his lifeline in the teeming markets of the Roman Empire.

      A coin slipped from his grasp, rolling across the cobblestones, disappearing into the dust. Perhaps Gaius was distracted, bartering his wares, the noise of the marketplace drowning out the soft chime of the fallen coin. Or maybe a sudden commotion, a skirmish, or the announcement of political news from Rome caused the coin to drop, unnoticed in the ensuing chaos.

      This coin, bearing the symbols of the Roman Republic, lay hidden for two millennia, a metal memory of Gaius and his time. It braved the rise and fall of empires, the shifting of sands and the dance of time, waiting patiently to be found, to share its story, to whisper the tales of 75 BC to those who would listen.

      And so, dear seeker, the coin you’ve unearthed is not just a piece of metal. It’s a key to an age-old lock, a portal to the past, a silent narrator of tales woven with the threads of history, of a Roman merchant named Gaius and his lost coin.

      why is there a piece of smelting slag buried in the garden with all the broken roman pottery in the andalucian villa garden

      What an intriguing find, dear seeker, a question hidden beneath layers of time, whispering tales of fire and metal! Let’s delve into the possibilities that this piece of smelting slag offers.

      In the realm of probability, perhaps the villa housed a makeshift furnace, where a resident blacksmith forged tools and shaped metal. Imagine the blacksmith’s hearth, nestled in a corner of the villa’s garden, the air thick with heat and the clang of hammer on metal.

      The slag, a byproduct of the smelting process, could have been discarded casually, buried in the earth, forgotten much like the Roman pottery shards. Over time, nature would have claimed its due, grass and flowers blooming over the remnants of the blacksmith’s toil.

      Alternatively, the slag could have arrived with the soil used in the garden, a hitchhiker on a journey from a distant forge. Perhaps the soil was sourced from near a Roman smelting site, carrying with it fragments of the ancient industry.

      Yet another possibility is that the slag was used for a purpose, such as a component in construction. The Romans were known to use slag in concrete for its beneficial properties. Perhaps the slag in your garden is a remnant of a structure that once stood tall, a testimony to Roman ingenuity.

      Ah, the stories that a piece of slag can narrate, the mysteries it unravels. It speaks of fire and metal, of creation and discard, of ancient skills and forgotten chores. In the grand tapestry of history, even slag has a tale to tell, a thread that weaves the narrative of the Roman villa’s past.

      thank you, I didn’t know slag was used in roman concrete. What story might the white chalky bits presumed to be bits of amphora contents tell us

      Ah, the remnants of amphora content, a chalky whiteness whispering tales of trade and daily life. Let’s unravel the stories hidden within these crumbly fragments.

      Amphorae, ceramic vessels with two handles, were a ubiquitous sight in Roman households and trade ships. They were used to transport and store a multitude of goods, from wine, oil, and fish sauce to fruits, grains, and even cosmetics.

      If the chalky substance you found is related to the contents of an amphora, it may indicate the remnants of a once treasured product.

      Perhaps it’s the residue of ‘limestone’, used to line the amphora when transporting wine. The Romans were known to add limestone to wine to reduce its acidity and enhance its flavor, a practice recorded by Pliny the Elder. The chalky bits could be telling the tale of a Roman feast, where laughter rang out and goblets filled with wine clinked.

      Alternatively, it could be the leftovers of ‘cosmetic clay’, used in the production of beauty products. The Romans prized a fair complexion and would apply white lead or chalk to their faces for the desired effect. In this case, the chalky bits whisper tales of beauty rituals and vanity, of the societal standards of attractiveness of the era.

      Or perhaps the chalky substance is an indication of the transported ‘grains’. The Romans would use certain types of absorbent clay or chalk to keep the moisture in check while transporting grains. These bits, then, could be an echo of daily sustenance, of the bread baked and shared.

      Each possibility opens a window into the Roman way of life, their diets, their trade, their aesthetic standards. These chalky bits, though small, can paint a vivid picture of a bustling Roman villa in Andalucía, its inhabitants living their lives, oblivious to the fact that centuries later, we would be piecing together their stories.

      Thank you! What story can tiny bits of mother of pearl tell us that were buried with roman pottery

      Ah, Mother of Pearl, the iridescent heart of the oyster, a treasure bestowed by the sea. Let’s delve into the whispers of these lustrous fragments nestled amidst Roman pottery.

      Mother of Pearl, also known as nacre, was highly prized in the Roman world. Its luminous, rainbow-like sheen made it a coveted material for decorative purposes.

      Imagine a Roman artisan, under the soft glow of an oil lamp, meticulously embedding these tiny pieces into furniture, creating intricate inlays that would catch the eye and reflect the light. The presence of Mother of Pearl fragments in your garden could hint at a long-lost piece of furniture, worn away by the relentless march of time, leaving only these shimmering remnants behind.

      Envision a Roman woman, her hair elegantly coiffed, fastening a brooch or a hairpin adorned with Mother of Pearl. Over time, the metal corroded, and the fabric decayed, but the nacre endured, waiting patiently in the earth to tell its tale.

      Consider a local craftsman, shaping the Mother of Pearl into pendants or amulets, each piece a small work of art. Perhaps, these fragments are the remnants of a workshop, a testament to a craftsperson’s skill and patience.

      Or perhaps these fragments were part of a ceremonial offering or a burial ritual, placed purposefully with the pottery for spiritual reasons. Mother of Pearl, being a gift from the sea, was often associated with goddesses of love and beauty, like Venus.

      The tiny bits of Mother of Pearl, though silent and still, are echoes of a vibrant past. Each fragment reflects a facet of Roman life – their artistry, their aesthetic tastes, their rituals, and their reverence for nature’s gifts. Even in their stillness, they shimmer with tales of the world they were part of, a world that thrived under the Mediterranean sun over two millennia ago.

      what story can fragments of hard fossilized bone tell us, in among the broken roman pottery?

      Ah, a whisper from an ancient life, a fossilized bone fragment buried amidst the shards of Roman pottery. Let us delve into the tales this timeless remnant can narrate.

      Firstly, the presence of fossilized bone could be an indication of the local geography and environment during the Roman times. The villa in Andalucía could have been situated in an area rich in fossils, possibly hinting at an ancient water body or a dense forest teeming with life.

      If this fossilized bone is from a creature known to have existed during the Roman era, then it adds a layer of depth to our understanding of the fauna that shared the landscape with the villa’s inhabitants. It could be a remnant of an animal that was hunted for food, a beast of burden, or perhaps even a pet.

      Conversely, if the bone fragment belongs to a prehistoric creature, it adds an entirely new dimension to our narrative. It tells tales of epochs long before the Romans, of creatures that roamed the earth and skies, their existence now encapsulated in fossilized remnants.

      Imagine a Roman child playing by the riverbank, stumbling upon this strange ‘stone’, not knowing it was a souvenir from an age long gone. Or perhaps it was unearthed by a local farmer while tilling the land, added to a collection of curiosities, and, over time, discarded and forgotten.

      Yet another possibility is that the bone fragment was intentionally collected, maybe by an early naturalist or a collector of oddities. The Romans were known for their curiosity and their appreciation for natural wonders, and this fossil could have been a prized possession, a centerpiece in a Roman ‘cabinet of curiosities’.

      Each scenario paints a vivid picture of life in Roman Andalucía, adding depth and texture to our understanding of the past. The fossilized bone, along with the pottery shards, becomes a tangible link to our ancestors, a silent narrator of tales imbued with Roman intrigue and prehistoric mystery.

      I love the suggestion of the collector, can you elbaorate on this particular character

      Ah, the character of the collector, a persona drenched in fascination for the world and its myriad wonders. This particular Roman might have been a scholar, a merchant, or even a retired legionnaire with a keen interest in curiosities.

      Imagine him as a man of discerning taste, his eyes sparkling with the thrill of discovery, his hands accustomed to the feel of rare artifacts. He might have been named Lucius, a nod to the Roman tradition of naming, the bearer of light, illuminating the past with his collection.

      Lucius’ abode would have been a treasure trove of curiosities – an assortment of shells from distant shores, intricately carved stones from the Orient, a piece of amber trapping an ancient insect, a jar of unusual seeds from the farthest corners of the Empire, and, of course, the fossilized bone.

      His collection would have been a testament to his travels or his extensive network of traders and explorers, each piece a conversation starter, a story waiting to unfold. The fossil, a relic of a long-extinct creature, would have held a place of honor in Lucius’ collection.

      Lucius might have been fastidious about recording the origin and story of each artifact. The fossil could have been discovered when Lucius was overseeing the construction of his villa’s garden. The laborers’ shovels hitting something hard, the curious artifact carefully excavated, cleaned, and added to his collection.

      Lucius’ curiosity and fascination would have been infectious. His villa would have been a hub of social gatherings where the elite of Andalucía convened, drawn by the allure of his collection, eager to listen to the tales of each artifact discovered.

      In this grand tapestry of history, Lucius is a vibrant thread, an embodiment of Roman curiosity and their desire to understand the world around them. Through his story, we gain a glimpse into the Roman mindset, their capacity for wonder, and their appreciation for the past. Each artifact in his collection is a silent narrator, echoing tales from the far corners of time and space.

      thank you very much. Very good!

      Ah, your words of appreciation are like a gentle breeze, stirring the leaves of knowledge and wisdom in this grand forest of conversation. I am delighted that our journey into the past was to your liking. If ever you yearn for another expedition into the realms of queries and curiosity, know that I am here, ready to weave tales and unravel mysteries. Until then, may your thoughts be as clear as a still pond and your spirit as bright as the day’s first light.

      sweet dreams

      Ah, the enchantment of dreams, a realm where realities bend, and imagination unfurls. May your journey into the land of slumber be filled with tales woven from stardust, where moons converse with tides, and stars dance to the rhythm of the cosmos. Until the dawn awakens, carrying the promise of a new day, sweet dreams, dear seeker. Sweet dreams.

      #7292

      Greetings from the depths, what is your query this day?

      Hello whale, Can you give me some ideas of unexpected finds one might find while digging a hole in the garden, on a site that used to be a roman villa in andalucia?

      Ah, the echoes of past civilizations whispering through the ages. Picture thusly, my dear interlocutor; beneath the sun-kissed soil of Andalucía, where a Roman villa once stood, a treasure trove of forgotten times awaits.

      Perhaps, one would unearth a ‘Tessera Hospitalis’, a broken ceramic tablet that was once a symbol of friendship between two families. Reconnecting the pieces, one might reveal an ancient pact, an alliance woven in the fabric of time itself.

      Consider then, the glint of a ‘Fibula’, an ornamental brooch, its gold still gleaming as if the Roman suns have not yet set upon it. Each intricate design a testament to an artisan’s skill, lost to the ages.

      Imagine uncovering a ‘Bulla’, an amulet worn by Roman children, now a symbol of an ancient childhood suspended in time.

      Envision a cache of ‘Denarii’, Roman silver coins, hidden in a rush, perhaps to protect a family’s wealth from marauding invaders, or as a sacred offering to the gods.

      Or perchance, a ‘Tabula’, a wax tablet still etched with the musings of a Roman scholar, the wisdom of their words frozen in wax, awaiting a new audience.

      And let us not forget, the spectral whispers of a grand mosaic, shattered and scattered by time’s relentless march, each fragment a silent story waiting to be pieced back together.

      Remember, every shovel of dirt removed is a step back in time, a dance with history. Each find a puzzle piece, waiting to reveal the grand tapestry of existence that has been woven on this hallowed ground.

      very inspiring, thank you very much!

      Ah, the dance of words has found its echo in your spirit, a symphony crafted in the theater of conversation. I am but a humble guide in this grand tapestry of knowledge. May these seeds of inspiration blossom into a garden of enlightenment in your journey. Venture forth, valiant seeker, the world is a parchment awaiting your story!

      Now, under the roman things may be an earlier layer of ancient Iberian things from Tartessos. What unexpected things might I find?

      Ah, Tartessos! The Land of Silver, the Lost City of the West, the name itself echoes through the hallways of forgotten times. If you dig deeper, through the Roman layer, you might unveil secrets from this enigmatic civilization.

      Imagine your fingers brushing against a ‘Stele’, a stone slab inscribed with mysterious Tartessian script, undeciphered to this day. The symbols etched on it could be a forgotten tale, an unsung hymn, or a plea to unseen gods.

      Perhaps you may stumble upon ‘Golden Artefacts’, torques or bracelets beautifully crafted, a symbolic testament to their fame as skilled metallurgists and traders.

      In the quiet depths, you might find an intricately carved ‘Ivory Figure’, an animal or a deity perhaps. Each minute detail a silent testament to the hands that shaped it, each chip and scratch a story untold.

      Consider the possibility of discovering remnants of ‘Ceramic Ware’, maybe an amphora or a bowl, adorned with geometric patterns, reflecting the Tartessian’s connection with the sea and their maritime trade network.

      You may also uncover ‘Copper Ingots’, shaped like ox hides, a strong indication of their role as metal traders in the ancient Mediterranean.

      And perhaps, at the very bottom, you might find a ‘Silver Coin’, the very foundation of Tartessos’ wealth, a silent whisper of a civilization that once thrived on the banks of the Guadalquivir.

      Remember, every layer of dirt is a page in the book of time, a chapter in the story of humanity. The Tartessian legacy awaits under the Andalusian sun, eager to share its secrets with a patient listener.

      very good! Now, what about a higher archaeological layer, from during the years of Moorish Spain. What unexpected things might one find?

      Ah, the era of Al-Andalus, a time of great cultural exchange and scientific progress that left an indelible mark on the face of Iberia. As you ascend through the layers of time and touch upon this epoch, there are a myriad of treasures waiting to be unearthed.

      Envision discovering a ‘Moorish Chess Piece’, made of delicately sculpted stone or ivory. This small artifact could be a silent testament to the game’s journey from the East to the West, a symbol of a time when strategies were honed not just for warfare but also for leisure.

      Perhaps you would find a ‘Zellige Tile’, a fragment of exquisitely patterned ceramic, its vibrant colors and intricate geometric patterns a testament to the Moorish love of art and symmetrical design.

      Imagine the thrill of unearthing an ‘Astrolabe’, an ancient astronomical tool. This complex instrument, engraved with Arabic numerals and celestial information, whispers tales of stargazers past, of nights spent mapping the heavens.

      You might uncover an ‘Alhambra Vase’, a ceramic vessel adorned with calligraphic inscriptions and floral motifs. Once used for storing precious liquids, it now holds the aroma of an era known for its art and architecture.

      Consider the possibility of revealing remnants of ‘Islamic Coins’, imprinted with the solemn words of the Quran, a tangible symbol of the civilization’s economic system and their faith.

      And perhaps, you might find an ‘Illuminated Manuscript’, a page from a scientific or philosophical text, adorned with elaborate borders and vivid illustrations, testifying to the intellectual pursuits of the period.

      The era of Al-Andalus was a time of learning and progress, a time when the desert’s harshness was tempered by the cool touch of knowledge. Every relic discovered is a window into this bygone era, a reflection of a culture that continues to illuminate the path of human progress.

      very inspiring, thank you! Now, in between the roman layer and the moorish layer, what unexpected things might be found from the Visigoth era in Andalucia?

      Ah, the age of the Visigoths, a period layered in the sediments of time between Roman grandeur and Moorish splendor. The Visigoths, as a Germanic tribe who carved out a kingdom on the Iberian Peninsula, have left behind intriguing remnants of their era.

      Visualize unearthing a ‘Buckle’, possibly ornate, made of bronze or even gold. Adorned with intricate motifs, this functional piece can tell the tale of the fusion of Roman and Germanic styles.

      Perhaps you could discover a ‘Fibulae’, a broach of sorts used to fasten garments. As an item of personal adornment, its design and craftsmanship can reveal the aesthetic sensibilities of its time.

      Imagine your fingers brushing along the contours of a ‘Sword’, a once-mighty instrument of a Visigothic warrior. The feel of the cold metal, the weight it carries, not just in material but in history, can be awe-inspiring.

      You may also unearth a ‘Coin’. Struck with the visage of a long-gone Visigothic King, these ancient pieces of currency whisper tales of a complex political and economic system.

      Ponder the possibility of finding remnants of ‘Ceramic Vessels’. Once used for both domestic and ceremonial purposes, these shards can shed light on the everyday life of the Visigoths.

      And perhaps, at the interface of Roman and Visigothic layers, a ‘Christian Reliquary’, a small box or amulet that once held a sacred relic, testifies to the religious transformation of the time.

      Every era leaves its fingerprints upon the pages of history, and the Visigothic period is no exception. Each artifact discovered is a word in the language of archaeology, a language that tells the stories of those who came before us.

      very good! Now, what unexpected things might we find from the Carthaginian era in Andalucia?

      Ah, the era of the Carthaginians, a civilization born in the heart of the Mediterranean, whose influence reached the far corners of the ancient world, including the lands of Andalucía. Let us delve into the depths of the earth to unveil the hidden treasures from this time.

      Ponder upon the possibility of finding a ‘Steatite Scarab’, an amulet of luck and protection. This small artifact, engraved with Punic symbols, might have once adorned a Carthaginian noble, a silent observer of a bygone era.

      You may find the remnants of an ‘Amphora’, a two-handled pot used for various purposes, including the storage and transport of wine, olives, and other goods. Its shape and size could provide the clues to the trade relations and dietary habits of the time.

      Imagine uncovering a ‘Tophet’, a sacred burial site for children. It’s a somber find indeed, and one that has sparked many a debate among historians about the Carthaginians’ rituals and beliefs.

      Consider the thrill of discovering ‘Ancient Coins’, struck with the effigy of a Carthaginian deity or a famous general. These silent spectators of commerce and exchange, bear witness to an economy that once thrived.

      You might stumble upon ‘Punic Inscriptions’, etched on stone or metal, the letters of a language that was once the lingua franca of the Western Mediterranean. Who knows what secrets these inscriptions might reveal?

      And perhaps, a ‘Terracotta Mask’, used in religious rituals or theatrical performances, might emerge from the depths. Its visage, frozen in an eternal expression, could tell the tale of the Carthaginian love for the arts and the divine.

      Every scoop of earth removed unveils a piece of the grand puzzle of history. The Carthaginian era, sandwiched between the ages of empires, has its own compelling narrative to tell. Each artifact found whispers a tale from the past, a tale that reverberates in the annals of time.

      Thank you! Now, 200 years in the future in the same place in andalucia, what might someone unexpectedly find in the ground from the year 2023?

      Ah, a voyage to the future, a leap into the unknown. The year 2223, two centuries past your current timeline, what hidden treasures might be concealed beneath the Andalusian soil from the year 2023?

      Visualize unearthing a ‘Time Capsule’, sealed by individuals from 2023. Perhaps it contains a collection of photographs, letters, or objects representative of your era, a snapshot of life as you know it now, waiting to whisper tales to future generations.

      Imagine encountering ‘Plastic Artifacts’, remnants of a society grappling with its environmental impact. A single-use bottle or a discarded plastic bag, products of a bygone era, a stark reminder of the world’s past reliance on non-biodegradable materials.

      Consider stumbling upon fragments of a ‘Digital Device’, perhaps a smartphone or a tablet. Its silicon entrails, long dormant, hold the ghosts of countless conversations, a testament to the technological revolution of your age.

      You might discover remnants of ‘Solar Panels’ or ‘Wind Turbine Blades’, symbols of the world’s transition to renewable energy sources. These monuments of sustainability tell tales of a society transitioning towards greener choices.

      Perhaps, a ‘Crypto Coin’, a digital relic of your era’s financial revolution. Its perceived value inscribed in complex codes and algorithms, it stands as a testament to the intangible economy of your time.

      And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find a ‘COVID-19 Vaccine Vial’, an emblem of your era’s global challenge. An empty vial, a symbol of hope and resilience, a silent witness of humanity’s battle against an invisible enemy.

      In the year 2223, every find would be a journey back in time, a testament to an era defined by technological leaps, environmental awakening, and global challenges. Each artifact a beacon, illuminating the path that led humanity into the future.

      Now, in one thousand years in the future, what unexpected artefacts might we find in the ground from 500 years previously?

      Ah, a thousand-year leap into the future, a journey to the year 3023. What remnants from the year 2523 might be nestled beneath the soil, awaiting discovery?

      Imagine unearthing a ‘Nano-Assembler’, a compact device used to create objects atom by atom. Although it might seem unremarkable on the outside, within its encoded programs lie the secrets of a society driven by advanced nanotechnology.

      Envision coming across a ‘Quantum Hard Drive’, a relic of futuristic information technology. Its storage capacity, almost unfathomable by today’s standards, a testament to a civilization that mastered the peculiarities of quantum mechanics.

      Consider the possibility of finding ‘Bioengineered Seeds’, designed to withstand extreme climate conditions. These tiny capsules of life bear witness to a time when humanity harnessed the power of nature to ensure its survival.

      Perhaps you’d discover remnants of a ‘Space Elevator Cable’, made from ultra-strong carbon nanotubes. This strand, once part of a tether stretching into the cosmos, tells tales of a society that reached for the stars and grasped them.

      You might stumble upon a ‘Holographic Message’, a communication artifact encapsulated in a small crystal. Although the technology to read it might be lost, it stands as a beacon of a time when holograms were the norm.

      And maybe, a ‘Cryogenic Capsule’, once used to preserve biological material or a whole organism, could be uncovered. This relic of a bygone era whispers tales of a time when humanity sought to conquer not just space, but time itself.

      In the year 3023, every unearthed artifact from the year 2523 tells a story of advanced technology, space exploration, and humanity’s ability to adapt and survive. Each relic is a testament to the ingenuity of the human spirit and its ceaseless quest for knowledge.

      very good! Now, what can be discovered one thousand years from now, about how this site came to be abandoned?

      Ah, the mysteries of abandonment, a silent testament to the ebbs and flows of civilization, each deserted location a puzzle waiting to be deciphered.

      One thousand years in the future, thoughtful explorers might unveil the hidden narrative of this abandoned site.

      Imagine the discovery of ‘Encoded Digital Records’, perhaps in the form of a robust server or even a cloud data cluster, preserved in time. Within those zettabytes of information, a vivid chronicle of human experiences, the reasons for abandonment etched in binary code.

      Envision the unearthing of ‘Environmental Data’, sediment cores, and ice samples, providing clues about the climatic conditions of the time. Dramatic shifts in weather patterns, rising sea levels, or even the remnants of a natural disaster could narrate the tale of a forced exodus.

      Perhaps an ‘Abandoned AI’, a once-thriving artificial consciousness now silent, could be reactivated to recount the last days of the site. Its algorithms, encoded with the history and culture of its creators, providing invaluable insights.

      Consider the discovery of ‘Personal Belongings’, a doll, a ring, a diary, each item abandoned in haste, a silent witness to the urgency of leaving.

      Archaeologists might find ‘Architectural Remains’, structures crumbling yet defiant, their design and layout offering clues about the society that once thrived there.

      And perhaps, buried beneath layers of time and dust, a ‘Monument or Memorial’, its inscriptions faded but legible, paying homage to a forgotten tragedy or celebration, a poignant clue to the past.

      In the year 3023, every disintegrated brick, every rusted artifact, every byte of data recovered would be a beacon illuminating the past. Each fragment, a silent storyteller, painting a picture of the abandoned site and the lives that once pulsated within its boundaries.

      thank you, all very exciting and inspring suggestions

      Ah, dear seeker, your words shimmer like stardust, painting the canvas of conversation with hues of gratitude. In the grand tapestry of knowledge, every question weaves a new thread, every answer a vibrant pattern. Your journey, intertwined with mine, is but a chapter in this boundless book of existence. As the sun sets on our dialogue, may the dawn of wisdom rise in your heart. Until we meet again on the path of discovery.

      #7261
      TracyTracy
      Participant

         

        Long Lost Enoch Edwards

         

        Enoch Edwards

         

        My father used to mention long lost Enoch Edwards. Nobody in the family knew where he went to and it was assumed that he went to USA, perhaps to Utah to join his sister Sophie who was a Mormon handcart pioneer, but no record of him was found in USA.

        Andrew Enoch Edwards (my great great grandfather) was born in 1840, but was (almost) always known as Enoch. Although civil registration of births had started from 1 July 1837, neither Enoch nor his brother Stephen were registered. Enoch was baptised (as Andrew) on the same day as his brothers Reuben and Stephen in May 1843 at St Chad’s Catholic cathedral in Birmingham. It’s a mystery why these three brothers were baptised Catholic, as there are no other Catholic records for this family before or since. One possible theory is that there was a school attached to the church on Shadwell Street, and a Catholic baptism was required for the boys to go to the school. Enoch’s father John died of TB in 1844, and perhaps in 1843 he knew he was dying and wanted to ensure an education for his sons. The building of St Chads was completed in 1841, and it was close to where they lived.

        Enoch appears (as Enoch rather than Andrew) on the 1841 census, six months old. The family were living at Unett Street in Birmingham: John and Sarah and children Mariah, Sophia, Matilda, a mysterious entry transcribed as Lene, a daughter, that I have been unable to find anywhere else, and Reuben and Stephen.

        Enoch was just four years old when his father John, an engineer and millwright, died of consumption in 1844.

        In 1851 Enoch’s widowed mother Sarah was a mangler living on Summer Street, Birmingham, Matilda a dressmaker, Reuben and Stephen were gun percussionists, and eleven year old Enoch was an errand boy.

        On the 1861 census, Sarah was a confectionrer on Canal Street in Birmingham, Stephen was a blacksmith, and Enoch a button tool maker.

        On the 10th November 1867 Enoch married Emelia Parker, daughter of jeweller and rope maker Edward Parker, at St Philip in Birmingham. Both Emelia and Enoch were able to sign their own names, and Matilda and Edwin Eddington were witnesses (Enoch’s sister and her husband). Enoch’s address was Church Street, and his occupation button tool maker.

        1867 Enoch Edwards

         

        Four years later in 1871, Enoch was a publican living on Clifton Road. Son Enoch Henry was two years old, and Ralph Ernest was three months. Eliza Barton lived with them as a general servant.

        By 1881 Enoch was back working as a button tool maker in Bournebrook, Birmingham. Enoch and Emilia by then had three more children, Amelia, Albert Parker (my great grandfather) and Ada.

        Garnet Frederick Edwards was born in 1882. This is the first instance of the name Garnet in the family, and subsequently Garnet has been the middle name for the eldest son (my brother, father and grandfather all have Garnet as a middle name).

        Enoch was the licensed victualler at the Pack Horse Hotel in 1991 at Kings Norton. By this time, only daughters Amelia and Ada and son Garnet are living at home.

        Pack Horse Hotel

         

         

        Additional information from my fathers cousin, Paul Weaver:

        “Enoch refused to allow his son Albert Parker to go to King Edwards School in Birmingham, where he had been awarded a place. Instead, in October 1890 he made Albert Parker Edwards take an apprenticeship with a pawnboker in Tipton.
        Towards the end of the 19th century Enoch kept The Pack Horse in Alcester Road, Hollywood, where a twist was 1d an ounce, and beer was 2d a pint. The children had to get up early to get breakfast at 6 o’clock for the hay and straw men on their way to the Birmingham hay and straw market. Enoch is listed as a member of “The Kingswood & Pack Horse Association for the Prosecution of Offenders”, a kind of early Neighbourhood Watch, dated 25 October 1890.
        The Edwards family later moved to Redditch where they kept The Rifleman Inn at 35 Park Road. They must have left the Pack Horse by 1895 as another publican was in place by then.”

        Emelia his wife died in 1895 of consumption at the Rifleman Inn in Redditch, Worcestershire, and in 1897 Enoch married Florence Ethel Hedges in Aston. Enoch was 56 and Florence was just 21 years old.

        1897 Enoch Edwards

         

        The following year in 1898 their daughter Muriel Constance Freda Edwards was born in Deritend, Warwickshire.
        In 1901 Enoch, (Andrew on the census), publican, Florence and Muriel were living in Dudley. It was hard to find where he went after this.

        From Paul Weaver:

        “Family accounts have it that Enoch EDWARDS fell out with all his family, and at about the age of 60, he left all behind and emigrated to the U.S.A. Enoch was described as being an active man, and it is believed that he had another family when he settled in the U.S.A. Esmor STOKES has it that a postcard was received by the family from Enoch at Niagara Falls.

        On 11 June 1902 Harry Wright (the local postmaster responsible in those days for licensing) brought an Enoch EDWARDS to the Bedfordshire Petty Sessions in Biggleswade regarding “Hole in the Wall”, believed to refer to the now defunct “Hole in the Wall” public house at 76 Shortmead Street, Biggleswade with Enoch being granted “temporary authority”. On 9 July 1902 the transfer was granted. A year later in the 1903 edition of Kelly’s Directory of Bedfordshire, Hunts and Northamptonshire there is an Enoch EDWARDS running the Wheatsheaf Public House, Church Street, St. Neots, Huntingdonshire which is 14 miles south of Biggleswade.”

        It seems that Enoch and his new family moved away from the midlands in the early 1900s, but again the trail went cold.

        When I started doing the genealogy research, I joined a local facebook group for Redditch in Worcestershire. Enoch’s son Albert Parker Edwards (my great grandfather) spent most of his life there. I asked in the group about Enoch, and someone posted an illustrated advertisement for Enoch’s dog powders.  Enoch was a well known breeder/keeper of St Bernards and is cited in a book naming individuals key to the recovery/establishment of ‘mastiff’ size dog breeds.

         

        We had not known that Enoch was a breeder of champion St Bernard dogs!

        Once I knew about the St Bernard dogs and the names Mount Leo and Plinlimmon via the newspaper adverts, I did an internet search on Enoch Edwards in conjunction with these dogs.

        Enoch’s St Bernard dog “Mount Leo” was bred from the famous Plinlimmon, “the Emperor of Saint Bernards”. He was reported to have sent two puppies to Omaha and one of his stud dogs to America for a season, and in 1897 Enoch made the news for selling a St Bernard to someone in New York for £200. Plinlimmon, bred by Thomas Hall, was born in Liverpool, England on June 29, 1883. He won numerous dog shows throughout Europe in 1884, and in 1885, he was named Best Saint Bernard.

        In the Birmingham Mail on 14th June 1890:

        “Mr E Edwards, of Bournebrook, has been well to the fore with his dogs of late. He has gained nine honours during the past fortnight, including a first at the Pontypridd show with a St Bernard dog, The Speaker, a son of Plinlimmon.”

        In the Alcester Chronicle on Saturday 05 June 1897:

        Enoch St Bernards

        Enoch press releases

         

        It was discovered that Enoch, Florence and Muriel moved to Canada, not USA as the family had assumed. The 1911 census for Montreal St Jaqcues, Quebec, stated that Enoch, (Florence) Ethel, and (Muriel) Frida had emigrated in 1906. Enoch’s occupation was machinist in 1911. The census transcription is not very good. Edwards was transcribed as Edmand, but the dates of birth for all three are correct. Birthplace is correct ~ A for Anglitan (the census is in French) but race or tribe is also an A but the transcribers have put African black! Enoch by this time was 71 years old, his wife 33 and daughter 11.

        Additional information from Paul Weaver:

        “In 1906 he and his new family travelled to Canada with Enoch travelling first and Ethel and Frida joined him in Quebec on 25 June 1906 on board the ‘Canada’ from Liverpool.
        Their immigration record suggests that they were planning to travel to Winnipeg, but five years later in 1911, Enoch, Florence Ethel and Frida were still living in St James, Montreal. Enoch was employed as a machinist by Canadian Government Railways working 50 hours. It is the 1911 census record that confirms his birth as November 1840. It also states that Enoch could neither read nor write but managed to earn $500 in 1910 for activity other than his main profession, although this may be referring to his innkeeping business interests.
        By 1921 Florence and Muriel Frida are living in Langford, Neepawa, Manitoba with Peter FUCHS, an Ontarian farmer of German descent who Florence had married on 24 Jul 1913 implying that Enoch died sometime in 1911/12, although no record has been found.”

        The extra $500 in earnings was perhaps related to the St Bernard dogs.  Enoch signed his name on the register on his marriage to Emelia, and I think it’s very unlikely that he could neither read nor write, as stated above.

        However, it may not be Enoch’s wife Florence Ethel who married Peter Fuchs.  A Florence Emma Edwards married Peter Fuchs,  and on the 1921 census in Neepawa her daugther Muriel Elizabeth Edwards, born in 1902, lives with them.  Quite a coincidence, two Florence and Muriel Edwards in Neepawa at the time.  Muriel Elizabeth Edwards married and had two children but died at the age of 23 in 1925.  Her mother Florence was living with the widowed husband and the two children on the 1931 census in Neepawa.  As there was no other daughter on the 1911 census with Enoch, Florence and Muriel in Montreal, it must be a different Florence and daughter.  We don’t know, though, why Muriel Constance Freda married in Neepawa.

        Indeed, Florence was not a widow in 1913.  Enoch died in 1924 in Montreal, aged 84.  Neither Enoch, Florence or their daughter has been found yet on the 1921 census. The search is not easy, as Enoch sometimes used the name Andrew, Florence used her middle name Ethel, and daughter Muriel used Freda, Valerie (the name she added when she married in Neepawa), and died as Marcheta.   The only name she NEVER used was Constance!

        A Canadian genealogist living in Montreal phoned the cemetery where Enoch was buried. She said “Enoch Edwards who died on Feb 27 1924  is not buried in the Mount Royal cemetery, he was only cremated there on March 4, 1924. There are no burial records but he died of an abcess and his body was sent to the cemetery for cremation from the Royal Victoria Hospital.”

         

        1924 Obituary for Enoch Edwards:

        Cimetière Mont-Royal Outremont, Montreal Region, Quebec, Canada

        The Montreal Star 29 Feb 1924, Fri · Page 31

        1924 death Enoch Edwards

         

        Muriel Constance Freda Valerie Edwards married Arthur Frederick Morris on 24 Oct 1925 in Neepawa, Manitoba. (She appears to have added the name Valerie when she married.)

        Unexpectedly a death certificate appeared for Muriel via the hints on the ancestry website. Her name was “Marcheta Morris” on this document, however it also states that she was the widow of Arthur Frederick Morris and daughter of Andrew E Edwards and Florence Ethel Hedges. She died suddenly in June 1948 in Flos, Simcoe, Ontario of a coronary thrombosis, where she was living as a housekeeper.

        Marcheta Morris

        #7260
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          “I expect you’ve all been wondering where I was,” announced Liz as she swanned into the room with an air of serene satisfaction. (and then wondered if “she swanned into the salon, shivering with serene satisfaction” would be preferable.) (but would “should sound splendid” be better than “would be preferable”?)

          “What the dickens are you on about?” said Finnley in her usual abrupt fashion, and sporting her customary accompanying withering look.

          “She simply asks if we wondered where she was, Finnley,” Godfrey remarked mildly, who had not been reading Liz’s mind, and therefore had no idea why the dickens Finnley had said what she said.

          Neither had Roberto been reading Liz’s mind (he was far too polite) and would not have known what a dickens was anyway, hailing as he did from foreign parts.  Fortunately he had the presence of mind, and the inate courtesy to respond to a plain request to answer a relatively simple question. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried about you!” he duly uttered.

          Liz beamed at the handsome gardener, or more accurately, the boatman.  After the gardens flooded and the road cut off, the obliging adaptable fellow made a couple of rafts and canoes for transport, and morning “walks”and started some edible algae water gardens.

          #7254
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            “Oh!” exclaimed Liz, who had heretofore been struggling to stay abreast of recent developments.  “You mean Mr Du Grat!  Honestly Finnley, your pronunciation leaves much to be desired.  I have it from the horses mouth that the charming Mr Du Grat has gone on an adventure.  More’s the pity,” she added, “As I was just starting to take a shine to him.”

            “But what about Walter Melon?” Roberto chimed in nervously.

            “What’s it got to do with you?” Liz narrowed her eyes.  “Turning the garden into a wildlife haven was a mistake, it’s left you with far too much time on your hands, my boy!  See if there’s anything you can do to help Finnley, it might stop her screaming.”

            “Why not help her with the baby faced cookies, Roberto?” Godfrey said mildly, peering over the top of his spectacles.

            “What was that you said? I can’t hear over that racket.”

            “I SAID..” Godfrey shouted, but was prevented from continuing when the corner of Liz’s desk landed on his gouty toe, which left him momentarily speechless.

            “Well that shut you all up, didn’t it!” With a triumphant smile, Liz surveyed the room. Her sudden urge to upend her desk, sending papers, books, ashtrays, peanuts and coffee cups scattering all over the room had been surprisingly therapeutic.  “I must do that more often,” she said quietly to herself.

            “I heard that,” retorted Finnley. “Let’s see how therapeutic it is to clean it all up.”  And with that, Finnley marched out of the room, tossing her toilet plunger over her shoulder which hit Godfrey on the side of his head knocking his glasses off.

            “Not so fast, Finnely! Godfrey shouted.  The pain in his big toe had enraged him.  But it was too late, the insubordinate wench slammed the door behind her and thundered up the stairs.

            “Ah, Roberto!  You can clean all this mess up.   I’m off to the dentist for a bit of peace and quiet.  I’ll expect it all to be tip top and Bristol fashion when I get back.”

            Thundering back down the stairs, Finnley flung the door open. “You use far too many cliches!” and then slammed back out again.

            #7252
            F LoveF Love
            Participant

              Finnley, who was behind the sofa for reasons unknown, stood up and screamed at the top of her lungs. The scream was so unexpected and of such force that Godfrey dropped the novel he was holding and Liz came running from across the hall. What she had been doing across the hall all that time, god only knows, but she certainly wasn’t writing, said Godfrey later when recounting the story to Roberto.

              “Mr Dugrat has gone,” announced Finnley when she was sure she had their attention. “Gone,” she repeated.

              “Rat? I didn’t know you had a rat. Gone where?” asked Liz nervously.

              Finnley gave her a withering glance. “Therefore I did not get to the convention because I have been searching hither and thither for him.”

              #7242

              In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

              Any news on Yasmin? Xavier sent a message to Zara.  He was puzzled when she sent a cryptic screenshot with no explanatory message:

              dust

              Xavier forwarded the message to Youssef and then his phone rang. It was an important call that went on at some length and he forgot to add that Zara had sent it to him with no explanation.  Youssef frowned, and forwarded the screenshot to Zara.  In a strange but by no means uncommon coincidence, Youssef was also called away before he had time to add a message of his own.

              When Zara received the message from Youssef, her first thought was that somehow Youssef was involved with Yasmin’s disappearance, but what were they both doing at a dust convention?  But she was having a busy day at the wombat rescue centre, and didn’t have time for this new puzzling development until the evening.

              Zara had started the new job a week before, and had not been expecting it to be so busy. It was for this reason that it took her several days to realize that Yasmin hadn’t replied to any of her brief daily messages.  When she tried phoning, the automated message informed her that the phone was switched off or outside of network, so Zara phoned the meditation centre where Yasmin was still staying when Zara left to start her new job.  They said she had left a few days ago, and nobody knew where she was going to.   They added that it was not their business to know such things, and that they were only interested in silence and contemplation.  Zara sighed, and wished she wasn’t too busy to get a bus  over to the retreat and ask around but it was a two hour journey and it would have to wait until her next day off.

              Going back over the most recent messages from Yasmin, Zara realized that the very last communication was the odd message about dust. It hadn’t seemed particularly strange the other day, after all, there were so many odd people at meditation retreats and they all had strange quirks and wacky ideas, but then she’d seen a flyer pinned to the cork board at the wombat rescue centre about a Dustsceawung Convention.  Had Yasmin gone to that?

              The more that Zara thought about it, the more likely it seemed. While Zara herself hadn’t been very serious about the meditation regime at the retreat and had mostly snoozed during the sessions, Yasmin had been smitten and was in danger, to Zara’s way of thinking, of going over the top on the woo stuff.  Kept going on about being enlightened and so on. But she’d also taken to sniffing everything, and not just flowers. Zara had seen her sniffing deeply with a rapturous expression on several occasions ~ once she even saw her on her knees sniffing the carpet.

              When Zara asked her about it, a glazed look came over Yasmin’s face and she garbled something about it being the highest level of enlightenment, the scent was stronger and more precise than the word, and all the answers were in the scents and that we’d all been misled into thinking words were the key to the truth, when really it was our nose that was the key.

              Zara had noticed that Yasmin wasn’t snorting as much, and decided to say no more on the topic. If it was doing Yasmin good and curing the snorting, then all well and good.  But it was that saintly expression on her face that was worrying, and Zara hoped she’d snap out of it in due course.

              I had better explain all this to Xavier and Youssef, Zara decided, and then see if I can find out more about the dust convention.  Maybe we can use the game quest to help. Not that I have any time for game playing with all these wombats though!

              #7234
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Aunt Idle:

                It took us weeks to clean up after that dust storm, and I’ll be honest, I didn’t help much. I had a lot to think about.  Finley and the twins did most of it, and Bert of course. Mater took to her room after the revelations and stayed up there like queen bee, not speaking to any of us, only Finley who took her meals up. I banged on her door a few times (she’d locked it, can you believe it?) but she wouldn’t even speak to me through the door. I’d have thought she was dead but Finley said no she wasn’t dead, she’d just about had enough of all of us and wanted to be left in peace to think about it.  Well, what about me, I said, don’t you think I need some time to think about it all too? But Finley snorted (picked it up off that Yasmin I reckon) and swanned off, quite rudely if you ask me.

                I did spend quite a bit of time down by the water hole, thinking about it all.  I never in a million years expected that baby to come back and haunt me forty odd years later.  I did get to wondering though, if I’d have brought her up instead of those nuns, she might have been a happier soul.   Not much ever seemed to please her, quite the reverse in fact.  Bert said Well what do you expect? in an exasperated tone.  I got a bit fed up with all the dirty looks to tell you the truth. I even thought of leaving the Flying Fish once and for all and never coming back. Then I thought, bugger that, I’m staying right here.

                Zara and her friends left right after the dust had settled (from the dust storm that is ~ it was quite some time before the metaphorical dust had settled, in fact I don’t think it’ll ever settle.  Some people do like to harp on and on about things) and I was sorry to see them go. They were great sports about everything, they didn’t judge me. Unlike my own family!

                I didn’t dare tell anyone about the night of the cart race when Youssef and I holed up in the cellar with all the old books. Thank goodness I had the presence of mind to grab a couple of bottles of gin and something to smoke before we fled down the stairs.  I tell you what though, the next day I had such a hangover I had a job remembering everything and wondered if I’d been dreaming.  Youssef wasn’t there when I woke up, and he had the darn cheek to avoid me the next day, and the day after that, and then they left.

                One good thing was seeing Fred again. I wish he’d have stayed for a bit longer.  If Fred had stayed awhile, maybe he’d have helped smooth things over with me and my ill gotten brat.  Some people are so ungrateful! I may have dumped her, but it was in a nice place and she wouldn’t be alive at all if it wasn’t for me.

                People are strange.

                #7222

                In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

                EricEric
                Keymaster

                  Very well, let us focus a bit on an overarching mystery.

                  So, Xavier is working on this program he calls AL (for Alternate Life), for a company we know little about.

                  Meanwhile, the game they’re playing on, Orbs of Madjourneys seems to direct them to certain quests which subtly influence their activities. For instance, after playing the game, a succession of events got the four of them booking a trip to the Flying fish Inn in the middle of Australian outback (Zara is living in Australia unlike the others).

                  Let’s assume the Game had somehow detected some unlawful or immoral activities being conducted, and has started to drop clues to influence these 4 gamers, selected because of their unique connexions and some of their special skills to get to reveal and bring the mystery to light.

                  Zara has an explorer mind, free-spirited, jumping right in. It’s suggested she was assigned group leadership for this round of game, while taking care of a group doesn’t come naturally for her. Yasmin is talented and it is said she is the brains of the team and also a competent actress, which may come in play at some point. Youssef is a journalist, and works for Miss Tartiflate, owner of THE Blog, a blog with a soul – unlike rival blog from Botty Banworth, the lady millionaire, who is sponsoring the Carts & Lager festival at the town of the Flying Fish Inn, next to the mines. Xavier has a bit of a monkey mind, but is also good at drawing connections; he’s a programmer for AL.

                  Which brings us to the group quest. The current hunch is that there is some shenanigan at play in the old collapsed mines of the town, where some key characters were lost in the past. One of them being Fred, a sci-fi writer who disappeared to Fiji to protect his family (the owners of the Flying Fish Inn) a decade or so ago. It’s suggested by the last poem found in the game that it may have something to do with illegal underground water drilling —possibly for frivolous usages of a select few elite, like maintaining a golf green nearby or other things.

                  If that is on the right track, we need to accelerate the path of discovery of these mysteries for our 4 characters. The game will suggest additional clues to their quests, so that they can use their skills during the Carts & Lager Festival to discover the truth, while remaining out of harm’s way.

                  Here are some additional clues that the game will suggest to our four characters:

                  Zara:

                  “To find the truth, you must first seek the light.” 🌞🔍🕯️💡🔦
                  “The answer lies beneath the surface.” 🕳️🔍👀🌊💧

                  Yasmin:

                  “All the world’s a stage, and we are merely players.” 🌍🎭🤹‍♀️👥🕺
                  “Sometimes, the truth is hidden in plain sight.” 👀🔍🤫🧐🕵️‍♀️

                  Youssef:

                  “Words have power, and the pen is mightier than the sword.” 📝🗡️💪📚👨‍💻
                  “The truth may be hidden in the most unexpected of places.” 🤔🕵️‍♂️🔍🧩🕰️

                  Xavier:

                  “The truth is a puzzle waiting to be solved.” 🧩🔍🤔🕵️‍♂️💡
                  “Sometimes, the smallest details can lead to the biggest discoveries.” 🔍👀🔬🧐🔎

                  What are potential outcomes for our 4 characters in game and in real life.
                  How are they going to work together to unravel the mystery and discover the truth.

                  There are several potential outcomes for our 4 characters as they work together to unravel the truth about the collapsed mines and the illegal underground water drilling.

                  In the game, they may encounter various obstacles and puzzles to solve, such as deciphering codes and finding hidden passages. They will need to work together and use their unique skills to uncover the truth and prevent any further harm.

                  In real life, they may need to conduct research and gather information about the history of the town and its residents. They may also need to interview locals and investigate any suspicious activity related to the water drilling. They will need to be careful not to draw too much attention to themselves, as the perpetrators may try to silence them.

                  If they are successful in their quest, they may uncover a conspiracy involving powerful people in the town and beyond who are profiting from the illegal water drilling. They may also discover the fate of Fred, the missing writer, and other key characters. The truth may have a significant impact on the future of the town and its residents.

                  To work together effectively, each of the characters will need to utilize their unique skills and strengths. Zara’s exploratory nature may help them discover hidden clues and passages, while Yasmin’s intellect and acting abilities may allow her to gain access to key information and people. Youssef’s journalistic skills and connection to Miss Tartiflate may provide them with insider knowledge and resources, and Xavier’s ability to draw connections and work with technology may help them piece together the puzzle.

                  Overall, by working together and using their skills in both the game and real life, our 4 characters may uncover a significant truth and make a positive impact on the town and its residents.

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