Our two heroes on a hill overlooking the Great City. Galtus, the big, large, beastly scholar and Aelrod, the whispy genius.
“What, for love of sheep bladder lining, shall I say of the overwatch, who has, for eons, prized pointed barbs of dim wit from their bare gums, picking carcassed spirits from the between of their teeth, guts full on the succulent crackling meat of cooked long pork's most carniverously sour devouration of a lucid conversant?”, crones Aelrod in a nasaled whine.
Retorts Galtus reassuring and gruffly guffawing, “Say then, they are animals and feasting fattens for feasting. Say they are treif, avoidant of any true flavor, availing only on the stalen common old spices of war and violence to herb and pepper a hotly profuse contemporary avarice and swoll with the callous linguary necessaries of ignoramity and her saucily diminished stations. Say, here is the overwatch, lost in a mentacular fog, unable to closely or to remotely fathom or to comprehend the viceries of one's constant, steady, fixed, consistent and tactfully nuanced experimental observation of some comparative dimness and clearness, to infer with such great exactness the rote configuration of the object observed and with the crude squatting of bowel elimination, mawkishly abandoned reason. With a maniacal fervor, moronically enabling the successive generations to the extrication of noun building exercises. Wearing verbs like a cilice? No. Those archaic words lamentably lost like the waning passage of blue eyed Fuchsia's in villatic fields. Transfixed with bulk siring a dire, thick headed, brood to dine via fluidic on such an object as a slovenly and disheveled host groats diction like crushed oat. Say that they would all the sooner warm from the fire of burning books than to burn from the fires of a warm book. Say nothing, Aelrod. Saddle the mount quickly and ride away, before the inferno of sardonic breath is all but consumed. They are sluggish dullards who lack proper filter when they speak, so, you'll never find yourself having to wonder what they think. When you encounter them, do not compliment them. Spit and piss vinegar. They're predictable. They aren't so bad.”
“They aren't so good, either.”, says Aelroed fidgety with the stress of his task, “The overwatch, take my speech, Galtus! Do hear now that my voice is more recalcitrant than the deliriously blunderbus speeches of the meek cum meandering conversationalist's who have made entrance into their boorish rank and file.”
“Yes. Daily, quadruples in your state, Aelrod, of the truculent and obstinately uncooperative vile behaviour, into a sullenly sunken manner which the vastly physically superior might and sheerly numerous hordes of barbaric, quasi-unsentient, sentinals of the low, unruly throng that we call, overwatch, find most delictable.”
Aelrod drops his flagon of what can only be described as oil residue and worm's piss and dismounts to retrieve it, “Would you have me silent? Ergo, as like one unto death? If only I had a silky smooth, rounded, pronotum affixed behind my head like the Gryllidae, I then could ring hollow betwixt their granite ears with the strong, masculine, sounding of rhythmically chirping sonatas, until hallucinations comforted them. Why must we live in secret, our order, why not live in the light? Can't the baffonic simpletons see that we can help them, help themselves? I hate them so much the butterflies have died in my stomach.”
Galtus winces at the risen sun, “Be that as it may, the overwatch reflects the will of the people. They fear an education lends too much power to one over another. They want their literacy akin to an unspoiled maiden and, so, hence, by their blemished gyobi-like berries and daftly erroneous hours of dead-reckoning the stars for a route to immortality, fruitlessly, I might add, well, then, Aelrod, your intercourse with beauteous tattered bindings and succour for age-scented rolled parchments, defile their un-literary flower. When you are evermore met with blind avarice and wanton abandon and to disregard for your affects and person, you are cautioned to speak the tongue of the base and brute.” Galtus plops a heavy hand to Aelrod's should giving the sod of a nervous wreck a few grips of hard, tight, squeezes with a disheartened sigh. “We hide, because we are living books and books are burned.”
“I shall rule them all with an iron fist, Galtus.”, says Aelrod remounting his steed after struggling a bit.
The two laugh.
“Aelrod, noble your intent, but obstructed your cause. The one does not rule the many. It is the many that rule the one. The wealth, power and fame, these are just to delude and to painlessly pacify and restrain societies real prisoners.”
Aelrod fell silent. The two men rode off on their own separate ways and when Aelrod reached the gate of the Great City, he thought, “What's the best way to pass for an imbecile? What would the wise Galtus do?”, so, he poured out all of the big coins from his purse onto the ground and said, “Al'od, on'y haff diss much monies, can't coundt ‘dem. Can for he buy some'think for to eat?”
The mountain of a guard responds, “Me, Gyma, not know how coundt ei'derr. Me takes’es all'za monies, you go. Go ‘way! Go 'way!”, then the bully of a guard begins bashing frail Aelrod's leg with the broad of his sword, slashing the fine threading and nicking his bruising flesh.
Aelrod kicked his olden, used, war horse into a gallop and, now, broke, rides far away, quickly.
He'll have to hunt and forrage scraps from the unlit, mangy, forest of nearby thorn covered, ill, scraggly looking trees. Delightful. Aelrod halted the horse and looked back to the distant rise of spires from the Great City. Galtus would be long gone by now and he was all alone save for eyes watching from the woods.
He'll never survive in a world of the uneducated.
He called back, “Someday, Gyma, I'll make you go away! I'll make you all go away!” He waived a fist for emphasis, but there were none around to see. The decrepit creamy beige destrier bled from its nostrils as it snorted heavily and began stamping worn-shod hooves.
A pack of ravenous wolves descended from the tree line, the haggardly nag collapsed of a burst heart from the stress of it all, pinning Aelrod to the blue clay of the earth beneath him. He read about this somewhere. It didn't end well for the rider. A volume on the history of the inner world falls unbidden from a satchel with a torn V-belt and busted brass prong and buckle.
Aelrod throws the book at an encroaching wolf, which serves only to rile up it's advance. He can feel the biting sting and hear the crisp crunch of bone caused by unforgiving fangs sunk into his pain ridden face as hot breath, drool and blood mixed together. His last follied thought was one of why he'd not set his books down and learn to be a warrior, instead.
Reason being, he thought he'd never have to fight to survive.
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