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04-04-03, for Desdmona

Desdmona's Belated Birthday Wishes

A Nymph, A Satyr and a Sprite walk into a bar...Taverna to be exact. The Sprite, warm and bubbly was tagging along with her heroes; Birthday Nymph and Birthday Satyr. She was still trying to guess how she lucked out with such a plum job.

Seems the Ogre ticked off some higher up...and we all know about unions and the higher ups. Some shadier underworld characters visited...shudder it wasn't a pretty sight and that was before they messed him up.

The Birthday Nymph and the Birthday Satyr were discussing their retirement over a good summer mead. “Sprite,” they said, “these ones can be hard to entertain. They've seen everything! All they want is a roll in the hay!” The Sprite grinned at that. It was good to know that all HER exploits hadn't made it all the way through the Union.

'So, who's your latest victim…I mean assignment?“ the Satyr asked.

“Ummm, do you know Desdmona?” the Sprite asked curiously.

“Sure do!” B.N. spoke up. “She's a good one to start with.”

The Satyr nodded in agreement.

“Well, the Union sent the paperwork late. I hope she won't mind. Where do you start?”

“Head up to the stage; there's a mic, and you can get everyone's attention. You all set?”

“I think I have it, but thanks for all the help!”

The sprite shook the pixie dust off her wings (pesky things though pixies) and fluttered over to the stage. Taverna was pretty dark, and while she didn't hear many words, she could hear the murmur of voices. Occasionally she'd hear a gasp or a moan. She grinned. She was really gonna like this group.

She reached out, and tapped on the mic. It buzzed nicely.

“Ahem. Excuse me. Could I have everyone's attention?”

She could hear the murmurs die down.

“The Birthday Union sent me as your permanent replacement for the retired Satyr and Nymph. I only hope I can fill their shoes.” Her wings fluttered to keep her face even with the mic.

“We have a belated birthday tonight. Seems the paperwork was shuffled while they were sending me out here. So, our guest is to be graced with a poem tonight.?” The sprite cleared her throat.

“There once was a writer on ASSD
Whose grace and style seemed to hold the key.
It would have to be fate
Making this birthday wish late,
Dear Desdmona, from me!”

Happiest days, Desdmona!

The thread in Google

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Framed

Birthday Nymph Retired?

Under normal circumstances, the opening of the Taverna's door would cause no more than a slight ripple of curiousity in the room, but this time...well, shall we say simply that it's not a common occurrence for a nun to wander through those doors?

But there's something strangely familiar about that nun. And as she catches the pointed toe of the black satin slipper on the hem of the robe and stumbles into the bar with something not-quite-resembling the grace and decorum expected from one with so “humble” an appearance, it becomes obvious to the regular patrons.

Vague mumblings of, “oh, it's just her...” can be heard as the patrons return to their drinks.

It's a new look for her, clad in black, loose-fitting robes, her wings little more than a vague outline under the flowing cloth (is that silk? Surely that's not completely appropriate for such a robe..). Her features framed in white, and around her waist a beaded strand that appears to resemble, could it be? A rosary? Surely not.

She gathers herself, lifts the hem of the gown to clear the way for her feet (and the flash of nymph-pale skin beneath the hem lays waste to the idea that she'd take the look so far as to include sensible nun-stockings. No, that quick flash of leg reveals instead a softly-patterned, almost-sheer black silk stocking. She drops the hem before we can determine if it's lace-topped or garter held. Ever the tease, our Nymph.

As a waiter passes by her, bearing a tray laden with wine glasses, she reaches up on her toes and lightens his load by one glass before wandering to an occupied table to join the regulars seated there.

Sitting delicately in the chair offered by another black-clad patron, she sips quietly at first, then throws her head back to finish the wine in one, large, final gulp. A shudder passes through her before she begins to speak.

“Oh, dear Altan. Dear Denny. To borrow a well-worn phrase, the rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. As you can see, I've been somewhat, um, occupied. It appears as though there was a mixup in the certification department. I enrolled in some continuing education courses. Things to ”further advance“ my career…such as it is. But somewhere some wired were crossed. I was supposed to be taking a course in the construction and application of chastity belts as used in erotic literature, but ended up enrolled in a course promoting chastity as a way of life. As you can see...”

She signals the waiter for another drink before continuing.

“Anyway, it's been a long, arduous journey, this travel through poverty, chastity, and obedience. Needless to say, I didn't do very well in my coursework and I was, um, 'asked' to leave. Apparently word got out about my last public appearance, and it was very clearly explained to me that chocolate is not the proper attire for a sister of obedience. No sense of humor, those women.

“So, here I am. Back, sort of. It's been an ordeal, and one I'll not recover from quickly. I must thank the Sprite for being so willing to step up to the plate for me. I'm sure we'll work something out. Some sort of job-sharing duties. The Sprite is talented and obviously eager, and I'd hate to stifle her enthusiasm. She should be allowed to spread her legs 3;er 3;her wings and explore the joys of delivering such performances. As you can see, the birthday job is, well, habit-forming.”

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Framed

Birthday Nymph Retired? (Another story.)

Once again, the (former) Birthday Satyr is sitting in a corner of La Taverna. Alone. Fuming, fussing, muttering, grumbling. He is definitely not gamboling, which is what one would expect of a member of his species.

Once again, the only being unafraid to step within kicking distance of his hooves is a Muse. Even a Satyr is smart enough to know that his knees were not meant to bend at the angle required should he find his own hoof shoved up his arse.

Keeping his hooves to himself does not, of course, mean remaining completely silent. He muttered, “Muttermutter muttermutter mutter.”

“What was that?” queried the Muse. “It sounded like, 'Hairy fat can go akin' and 'Wiccan shall heave meat a falcon loan.' I suppose that makes a sort of convoluted logic. But that 'Stew pod bish' makes no sense at all.”

“Muttermuttermutter.”

Static seems to crackle about the muse. “Surely not. My parents were much better acquainted than that.” Her face has become somewhat less than cheerful, her eyes somewhat colder than glacier ice.

Belatedly, the Satyr realizes what the Muse's writer has long known. Muses know our innermost thoughts. Muttering is no cover at all. “I already know the whole story, but you need to put it in words for your self. That's the only way you'll begin to deal with it,” she confirmed.

“It wasn't my fault!” he bleated. (Well, he is half goat!) “Sure, I was the one who tossed around the word 'retirement,' but these folks are writers! They're supposed to know that words have more than meaning. Like when an army retires from the field. It means they pulled back - it doesn't mean they aren't an army or won't fight again.

“Or when someone retires at night. They get up the next day, right?

“Or like with a car. You put it in the shop and you take the old ones off and put new ones on. That's retiring, ain't it?

“Or when someone is shy. Yeah, when someone is shy they always tack on retiring. (Like anyone is gonna believe that after the brush and the chocolate and the fever.)” That last was delivered at near mumble levels

The muse merely drums the fingers of one hand on the table. Tatatatap. Tatatatap. Tatatatap.

Birthday Satyr heaves a sigh. It lands without a thud, somewhere off to the left. “Okay, okay. It's me that got retired. Retired, hell! Downsized. Let go. Pink slipped. Kicked out...”

Tatatatap.

“Okayokayokay. I was 'allowed to withdraw gracefully' instead of submitting to an investigation of where the funds allocated for party decorations and sets and 'open bars' and condiments went. It was just a little petty ca...”

Tatatatap.

“Fine, so Des' Birthday was supposed to have a scale mockup of an emergency room and the Sprite was supposed to be wheeled in on a gurney by four Chippendale Dancers! I had expenses!”

Tatap. “Feel better?”

“No!”

“You will. You're past denial, and anger, and bargaining and all that. Pretty soon, you'll reach acceptance.”

“Maybe.”

Tatatatap.

“Yeah, I guess. On the bright side, they stuck Birthday Nymph with my old job, so she'll still be around. But now she has to deal with Birthday Troll.” B.S. shakes his head. “How was I supposed to know he was the Birthday Succubus' son-in-law? Little wanker was the S.O.B. that ratted me out in the first place.”

He shakes his head. “Well, at least I'm still in the union. Maybe they'll find me the odd job or two.”

Birthday Satyr (retired [forcible])

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Framed