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<sup>This is a working fragment from a sci-fi novel I'm working on. Has nothing to do with eRepublik. Thought some folks might enjoy a wee taste of the kind of stuff I like to write when I'm not jollifying eRepublik.

Enjoy! -- PQ</sup>





Sure of their clever disguises, six Specials strolled into Eelan Town cloaked in the unassuming garb of the Rutotnik weaponsry guild.

“Ho there young slahbekka!”, shouted Special Number Three, in what he mistook for a jolly Western Eebar tone, to a local he’d mistakenly taken for a provider of fresh drink. “Please. We are buyers from Rutotnik and we’ve heard of the Great Moon Dance. Could you tell us where it will be done this season? And kindly point the way? And do you know who will dance the Antelope?”

Having expected them, and curious, not having previously seen the enemy up close, the young Eelani bekka stared the Special in the eye. Then eyed the others too. Marking their faces and features. A spotter born and bred, she could smell their duplicity.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” she replied.


Pouring the hatreds of generations into her gaze until satisfied they’d caught her spell, she spit on the ground easterly, in the direction of the Saskan capitol and gestured, as the Eelani do, to show that something tastes bad, with a pop of all five fingers towards the sky, as if letting go of a lifetime's disgust. She walked away muttering the ancient Eelani oath, “Fire under ground, fire in the sky. Beyond the wall of fire, there’s fire on the mountain.”


All of the Specials shuddered as she walked away. Number Three, who’d questioned her, had a shiver down his spine. Special Number One smacked Number Three upside the back of the head to stop the spell-sent shiver from spreading.

Having got his attention, “Don’t be such a dunce,” he said, “they have spies everywhere. Thanks to you they know we’re here.” He directed the Junior’s attention with a subtle jab of the chin. They watched her in whispered conversation with a lad who quickly ran off.

“Every mine, freehold, farm and manufactory in the Hills of Eelan will know we’re here within a few hours, you fooking goober. Word spreads through these hills like a blizzard blowing down from the Krunkinotto.”


They walked on. Stopping in a street of vendors selling everyday wares to purchase a knick-knack for pulling up carrots Special Number One asked in a careful monotone, “Which way to the Dance?”. The vendor pointed in the direction of the low hills west of town.