A cabin on the lake of Cards

A Cabin on the Lake

Mibby went to the Saymon's old cabin on the shore of the Lake of Cards. The Saymons had owned this two bedroom cabin on the shore for decades before they either died or moved on. No one knows for sure what happened to them. Said to be a friendly family who would lend helping hands to neighbors. There is something special, magical about this lake. The local lore has it that the family would go there for the weekends, or just the father and his friends. Or the son and his party buddies. A weekend of beer and fishing and playing cards after sunset. When they would go home they would always cast the cards they used for the weekend into the lake off the deck of they're cabin. Whatever happened the lake has tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of cards floating in it. The lake is always still. The waters always clear. Good to drink, folks normally bring a pitcher of it back home for medicinal needs. Cards wash ashore after moon lit nights. But there's always cards in the water like stars in the sky. Mibby used to stay here for the weekend sometimes with his older brother when he was a kid. He would walk along the beaches picking up cards. All sorts of different decks, some of them where naked lady decks! What a turn on, he would try to keep those cards secret from his religious brother. His brother was of the strict Thou-Shalts sect. He would make card houses with the cards but his brother would never let him take them home. Its bad luck he would say, bad form.

It was the cold rainy days before spring. Mibby liked coming here for a few days, sometimes even a couple weeks. He didn't have a job. He would bring some food and beer. Keep the brews perfectly chilled in the water. He likes to hang out burning wood and hard dense dry plants he gathered to keep warm. Often times there would be plenty of chopped wood or gathered up drift wood and debris to start a fire. People would leave things after staying here for themselves if they return or for who ever comes here next. Mibby has found beer and wine waiting for him, dried meats, packs of potato chips. This time Mibby brought a big block of cheese and a some Murple berries he had gathered from the woods. There's lots of things to eat around here is you spend enough time looking. Most of bad tasting or too extending chewing things. He would fish every day but so far he has only caught a nearly clear fish with bright blue gills. The fish the length of this thumb, a little fatter. he cooked it with the gear that is always here. Make a fire, prepare fish with knife, grease the pan with some mostly dried MaMooska fat somebuddy kindly left. The fish has a natural peppery taste. Not very filling so Mibby has a chunk of cheese with it. Its raining outside a cold rain and a moaning haunting wind. The wind gets through the many holes and cracks in the cabin. Someone tossed rocks threw most of the windows since the last time he was here. Fists of cold comes through the hole in the spider webbed glass.

When the morning comes and a little warmth returns Mibby goes outside to fish some more. Fishing is a form of meditation for him somehow. The gentle rippling sounds of water that never seems to move. He found a Elvin arrowhead on the shore. A beautiful red one with glistening mineral coated green lines making random etched looking patterns. Ornately carved. A real work of art.

Omrow

Omrow shivered when the cold rain began soaking though his clothes. Looks like its going to rain really hard, the sky a cob web of crackling flashes. A minutes walk ahead lightning struck a tree leaving it scorched and blackened, sagging at a precarious angle. He knew about the Cabin that was not far from here, he just had to follow the rain puddled road, walking around the gathering pools. Down the road till he sees that tall burial mound. Another sign of the Elvin lands taking by force a couple generations ago. It probably won't be long before the mound is cleared away for a food market or a race track. The trees here are constant but never too thick. It's easy to walk around the small clusters. Panties, empty cigarette paper packs, crushed beer cans here and there almost like a path to the cabin. Lots of kids party here. Too bad people don't treat the place with the respect they used to. Onrow is not from Arloban, the territory where this lake is in. He is from South Field. But people from all over know about the place. It has sheltered many a traveler.

Farson

Farson was a hunter. With shotgun, bow and trusty knife he would walk the lands. Some times when he is up on cash he drives his four wheeler. He loves drunken night hunting. He sells fresh meat to the folks of Arolban and South Field. Farson has hunted and killed people before. He even killed an old Elf he encountered in the woods. She was probably the last one within a few hundred miles. Farson was wasted on a sour home made whiskey. Most people can't drink it because it eats away the stomach lining. But Farson has the constitution of a goat. The stuff is cheap, he likes it when he has money. He can put a big heavy jug on it on the four wheeler and drive around shooting whatever moves in the fields and woods and grass lands. But now he is on to some special game. Maybe the best thing that could ever happen to him! He caught sight of a Spirit Deer! A almost mythical animal thought to be extinct. The Elves revered them and they never hunted the Spirit Deer. But the pelt of such an animal could fetch him twenty five thousand dollars! The pelts have healing anti-aging properties. He saw the animal drinking from the river. He didn't have his shotgun ready because he was busy unscrewing his flask for another long pull of sour whiskey. When he brought this cup down he saw the deer! Plump, thick perfect succulence and strong. A faint yellow glow from its body, brighter almost orange around its horns. The Spirit deer raised its head and look at Farson with KNOWING eyes. It turned and ran. Farson is fast with his gun, he spun it around on his shoulder strap, flicked the safety and opened fire. But the two shots he got in only grazed it. He found drops of a blue dew like blood going off in the woods near the Aroban border and he pursued it. The animal's hoof prints are larger then a deer's and they are heart shaped. He was able to follow the strange tracks for miles before losing them on a long sandy stretch where dust devils rise and moan the songs of the long dead. A track of sand that is ever expanding, it shall in the far future/distant past be known as The Moaning Desert. The non stop moaning winds that seem to have voices and sometimes you seem to catch words or whole phrases in weird melodies like a forgotten musical language.

Farson knows beyond this is the Lake of Cards. Surrounded by lush woods and swampy grasslands full of colorful snakes. Farson thinks that's where the Spirit deer is bound. But there's a storm coming. He can tell from the scent its going to be a rough one. The winds are picking up and the air feels moist. He decides to wait it out at the Cabin. He has spent up to a couple months in the cabin. He can make a deer stand a comfy home so the cabin is like luxury to him.