What's all this barmy stuff?
Want to find out what has been forgotten in the Styx?
Not enough barminess for you?
‘Ello berky! Yuv come to the write chap, I can tell ya, a bonified light boy and knower of all that’s t’ be known. Even old Pugs doesn’t know as much as me, gave him a right knuckle sandwich for that last remark of 's, I do hope he comes down from that lamp sometime. But you want to know about the Confectionary though, eh? It’s your jink cutter, but I could lead you write to where Kylies havn’ coffee today in the Lower ward… No, eh, ya sod? Bloody barmy if you ask me, which you obviously are, but if it’s that factory you want to know about, that's the dark I'm spilling.
Character: It’s a ‘orrible place they, say, the Confectionary, but still a lure and a curse to every kid in the bloody cage. Somewhere on Carceria among all its clutter ‘n bouncy balls all over the place, sits a smoldering ‘ol factory, an not the kind like here in the cage with chatty berks and a wimpy elf I could take barehanded for a Factol, I know him personally you know, ‘is right-hand man I am, but a big old things of smoke stacks an metal all in a neat little box of little right corners. It’s there that they say, the mums and the bleakers and other sods that I have nuttin to do with, say that all the candy and sweets in the multiverse are made, even those Arborean coure wands that Kylie says are Flat-net Coure-po-ration Dee-lue-jon. Make your mouth water, don’t it, thinking about all those chocolate squares and swirled sweets. But that’s the lure, ya see? If your bad they say, go nicking your mums knickers or making faces at a dabus, in the night the ‘leths summon you right out of yur bed and off to toil away in that factory for eternity, which is a bloody ‘lot longer then infinity they say. (Supposedly the 'leths get the children by putting spell crystals inside brightly covered candy, which just goes to show your always one lick away from horrible planar adventures - the Editor.) I don’t believe that myself though, ‘o course.
Description: They say it looks as bad as it sounds, and that’s not as worse as what's inside. It makes the cage look like a lovely place to have a vacation, and at least here the ‘leths don’t give you a sticky hug and keep you forever. The outside starts the horribleness, as the ‘leths have tried to paint it to make it a bit more jolly, which translates as torturous to the ‘leths, and it’s colored bad shades of red and pink and other jolly colors that resemble something squishy inside a sods body. The place is guarded by farastu, who march along it’s perimeter with deadly looking gavels to stab in anyone who comes to try and steal the multiverse supply of sticky things that rot your teeth, and there only spoiled slightly by the fact that there armour and helmet is made to look like a happy amusing Carcerian animal that’s fluffy. (And since most Carcerian animals look like ragged growling corpse scavengers anyway, the general effect is making you want to laugh yourself to death rolling on the ground, but worried they might drool on your leg when your done - the Editor) There’s still the normal things like belching huge smokestacks and pipes with pollutants pouring out and dripping down the side to corrode the metal, but if it obscures are those fluffy looking farastu and bad paint job, you’d be pretty sodding happy about smoke in your lungs and your socks on fire.
Inside the horrible corridors and tinkerish conveyer belts, among signs of “Please jump off the side” and “Danger! Not going in here may lead to long life!”, and most of all the sticky sweet aroma that drifts in the air visibly to taunt a berk. Valved squirters and boiling swirling vats dot the place everywhere, and among the splots, bubbles, and thwunkining of machinery you’re here the screams of the labors, or at least that’s what a farastu singing sounds like. They work in shifts that last years, being slopped into bottles and sent right along the conveyer belts sometimes to keep a careful eye on making every candy perfectly imperfect, and while they help the machinery along and try not to get stuck to any levers or wooshing things, they wear little round hard helmets. It’s a ‘orrible sight they say, watching three of them get stuck to the floor and dancing like made to get loose as there hats hop up and down.
Ruler: The berk who runs the place, though 'ev never met him myself, is a shator with a really sticky deal by the name of Gloutym (Pl / Shator Gehreleth / T2 / CE). Seems he once was trying to take over the mind of a little kiddy bleaknik-to-be with a little drum he banged as he drooled over a lollipop, but the 'leth backfired and the lollipop dropped on the foot of a passing arcanaloth, who was not pleased with the sticky trail down his robe. The 'loth didn't reprimand the kid, got me why, bloody 'loths, (The 'loth knew how much the little sod tormented his parents - the Editor), but grabbed the shaggy 'leth hiding behind the corner by his mane, very carefully in his claws to avoid the sticky thing, and decided to torment the 'leth a little bit by putting him in charge of the 'loths new punishmental factory, and give the glutton all the candy he wanted but nothing else forever. I could take that 'leth I tell you, he was a skinny thing for a shator they said, sinking to nicking candy, bloody sod.
He's still not sick of candy though, sitting behind his nice iron desk with quiet a bit more bulk now, and he always has a donut with sticky caramel and chocolate gluing about every candy in existence to the torus like frame, the thing drips more off then all the sprinkles piled on top of it, that he dips in a black flask of the darkest coffee-chocolate-taffy-syrup drink that's more sugary acid then anything. He don't do much besides taste the candy for it's 'freshness', but he occasionally writes up a few reports or thinks up a new flavor of chocolate when the 'loth comes by and whips him a bit. With all that though, he's still a happy 'leth with a fetish for sweets.
Sites: Site, cutter? I'm not sure if that chant's still floating around... ah, how nice of you to donate a few jink to my candy money! The real dark of it is the factory is only a shoddy front and a way to bring in the jink for the true project that undergoes at the heart of the blocky structure that's hidden from the 'leths by the 'leths, a bit of 'loth trickery if there ever was one. Inside the depths behind cookie cutters and pudding splatters is the mysterious third Yugoloth tower. Made as a giant scone, with little raisins and splattered with sugar, the tower is slowly rising as the 'leths are forced to build it with there own sticky hands. When the sodding things completed, as long as someone don't eat it, it will tower over Carceria looking like someone had dropped a frozen cream cone upside down.
Current Chant: One of the Confectionary's most popular treats here in the cage, the yummy little gummy larvae wigglers you can buy for as much as you can hold for a stinger, are said to have magical powers. No one but a sodding barmy would believe it's anything more then Hatchis advertising, but chant has it some bloody Lich on the waste has ordered ten million of them, which he plans to suck of all there gummy life-force, at least all of them except the yucky green ones. Bit disturbing if you ask me cutter, but that's the darks you wanted to know! Now I have to go bloody get the though of thousands of shrunken gummies out of my bonebox, maybe a nice refreshing walk through the Hive.
The Harp of Conchordant
"Having returned from my li'l wandering out Spireward, I think it's only fit I tell me story," began the haggard man in leather. Dirty and without a shave for weeks, he sneered when he spoke - always clutching at his flute for dear life.
"Out in the Outs, only a few rings Spireward from Sylvania, I stumbled across something that warrants stayin' up here in the loverly Gate'ouse for the rest o' me days," he motioned broadly and with a slight grin to the barmies listening around him. "Ne'er go to the 'tlands, lads, for this is what I saw."
"We was walkin about, me an' Grokus, when we come on this field." He spread his arms wide, and twitched his fingers. "Very expansive-like, wit' li'l flowers an' whatnot. An' they were all standin' aroun' the place, jus' starin' up at the bloody Spire, all hazy eyed with their ears covered."
"Do they even have ears?" began a listener, before being shushed by the crowd.
"So we see them all, jus' standin' about, lookin' up all wide-eyed at the Spire. All lower level Rillies, says Grokus, 'e can tell, 'e says. They all 'ave plowshares, they're all reapin' the 'arvist or some-bloody-such. 'cept one. One of the buggers is sittin' up on a rock, the only rock in the field, just binging away quietly on 'is harp, long, spindly fingers, jus' binging away on 'is harp."
"Soooo, of coarse, says Grokus, why don' we 'ave a bit o' fun with the silly Rillies? I says I don' think it's all that good an' idea, but Grokus takes out 'is harp and walks right through the field to the boulder. The Ril dosen even look down or miss a note, jus' keeps starin' away at the Spire. So Grokus yells for me to come over, so I do. An' when I get there, there's alot of eyes borin' into me 'ead. Every bloody one of the sods had their ridged faces pointed at me. Grokus claimed they were all lookin' at 'im, too. They get in yore 'ead, the Rillies do." He coughed, and continued.
"So, Grokus gets up on the boulder, an' he sits down all con-tempt-chew-ull like, an stares at the Ril. That was 'is first mistake - any sod foolish 'nough to get stuck in a starin' match with the Rils is damned, 'e is. But Grokus don't flinch. He plays a note on 'is harp, all the Rillies listening, while the one who was playing before jus' sat there all quiet-like."
"Then the Ril started playin' on 'is harp, and there was no noise at all. The Rillie's harp cancelled out Grokus's. So Grokus starts playin' faster. The Ril starts getting this manic grin, and it's eyes blink once reeeeal slow-like. An' it starts playin' faster. An' all the other Rils blink once, too, real- slow, in unison. Their way of applause, mayhap."
"The silent show went on for a good hour or two, at the end of which Grokus starts howlin' barmily an' he smashes 'is harp on the rock. He starts runnin' for me, to get me flute, so he can play that. Multi-talented, Grokus was," he said with a sigh. "I let 'im 'ave it for a sec, an' he plays three notes before the Ril starts balancing those on 'is harp, too, an' there was silence again. Grokus passed out, I took my flute back, and started backing away reeeeally slow-like. The Ril with the harp nods at me, real slow, and blinks. The other Rillies start blinkin' too, an' I bolted, leaving Grokus to 'is in-gee-new-ities." He licked his lips and nodded quietly.
"I can't play me flute anymore, lads," he added as an afterthought. "Everytime I try, the bloody thing seems to be one step ahead of me. It cancels out what I want to play on it, silencing me. I don't wish those bloody Rils on anyone, an' I do so 'ope poor Grokus is okay. Anyway. Lunch ready, then? Where's old Mrs. Hicks?"
All content copyright 1999 Jeremiah Golden or credited authors.