THE ENGINEER'S DILEMMA

A castle, I've discovered, is a curious thing.
No bard sings of mortar, no children praise stone,
yet leave down the drawbridge through winter and spring,
and every wandering soul will decide it's their home.

Some tracked in mud...
Some wandered the hall...
One remarkably gifted guest,
made away with half the wall!

Ingenious, truly.
Infuriating besides...
I should like to shake the fellow's hand...
just after someone finds where he hides.

So the walls were mended,
the hinges made true,
the chains now complain
of the work that they do.

The bridge rises swiftly,
the portcullis sings,
and the engineer smiles
at such sensible things.

The hearth still burns.
The ale still pours.
The laughter still echoes
through timbered doors.

The only amendment,
if one must complain,
is that guests now remain
on the *outside* of the chain.

Should misfortune pursue you,
or fortune think twice,
call loudly.

I shall grumble...
I shall lecture...
I shall explain, with scholarly precision, exactly how your predicament was entirely self-inflicted.

Then I'll help.

Not from affection.
Don't be absurd.

Corpses make dreadful conversationalists,
and competent fools are surprisingly rare birds.

So if, one evening,
with no fuss nor fanfare,
you find the drawbridge lowered
and discover yourself there...

Accept the ale.
Mind not the flame.
And if anyone asks,
insist all looked the same.

Above all....

pretend you noticed nothing.

It would be terribly rude
to remark upon the bridge.

The engineer,
you see,

takes **immense** pride in his work.

*Kutcher Winterbourne*
*The Hollowed Echo*


Penned by my hand on the 17th of Mayan, in the year 1010 AF.