Subject: Plortitics Recursive Fanfiction: Beyond the Western Bank
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Posted on: 2015-09-17 16:14:00 UTC

In the little village of Scapegrace, life continued as it had for many years. The free peoples tilled their lands in the iron-rich soils beyond the River's reach when it flooded, as rivers are wont to do. They grew tomatoes, turnips, peas, beans, sugar beet; sensible things, things that lasted long enough for the surplus to reach Central City by caravan or one of the Popular Dirigible Company's freighter blimps. The seasons came and went, but the years seemed to turn slower somehow, and the rich red earth fed all.

The call came from Central City, and the Centrists from Iximaz in particular were anxious to treat with the villagers. So they got what they could of the summer's blood-orange harvests in and began to assemble in the village square. They joined hands, as one, and waited for the Power to summon forth a representative.

Any individual from Scapegrace could touch upon the Power, but alone they could cast but a few sparks, enrich the earth, fix a blown gasket on a tractor. In concert? All the villagers together had cast one treaty to the Red Power, and did so every twenty years, after the fifth mayoral election. It kept the sun hanging in the sky, kept pests at bay, let their crops grow tall and their children grow strong. Scapegrace was a place of mild winters and lazy summers, with the wind blowing eastward to cool the harvest teams' collective brows. The Power did this, as long as people thought it would, and worked to make it work.

It was this power that so intrigued the young woman from Central City, her graduation wand from the Iximaz School of Witchcraft and Wizardry still shiny from lack of use - and no matter how much the little scrits back at the School had said so, it wasn't the thought of muscular young farmhands of all genders working up a sweat beneath a burnt-blue August sky. She alighted delicately from the helicopter as it landed (crashing would not be quite the right term) in the beet field that was at present lying fallow and giving sterling service as a helipad. She'd been expecting wood, this far south, but Scapegrace was apparently ably served by the brick-kilns at Artell. As she reached the square, she slowed and stopped.

There was the Red Power, flickering above the swaying, singing villagers like a demon holding court, powerful as a hurricane, strong as a mountain's roots. Strong here, anyway, where there were still those who believed. It was said in the village that the Power took on a different shape for everyone, and yet the general image remained the same; a human figure, holding a worker's tool in an experienced hand. To the young Centrist, the Red Power resembled her old Ancient Runes instructor, but with a burlier cast than the mantis-like academic had ever had.

As she stood, powerless to move, the Red Power descended from above the village, the rune-patterned cracks in its skin glowing like starlight as it moved. The marks intensified as it moved towards her, until the woman was all but blinded by it.

It reached out its hand, that was and was not a hand.

She took it.

And the Red Power was gone, its task done.

The villagers of Scapegrace came out of their trance like children roused from sleep on a long train ride. They looked around, and a small child ran towards the new arrival.

"Da, da! Look! 'S'an angel!"

A slim farmhand, with close-cut blond hair and the kind of smoothly toned body that the woman liked best, strode over and picked the little boy up. "Never mind him, young friend," he said over his shoulder, "he don't mean owt by... it..."

And he stared at the woman's hands, and with good reason, for they glowed like stars.

"Please, come with me... we asked the Power ter choose, an' it chose you, friend. Yer must be took to Mayor Cassandra an' welcomed proper. What do we call'n, other than friend of the People?"

"Gabrielle," the woman said, and shortly thereafter she heard it cheered.

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Ain't no magic like socialist magic. =]

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