[extropy-chat] A scaldic tale, in prose

[David Lubkin]

In the days since lost Sasha, Bostropians have gathered infrequently. 
Extropians of the Boston region, that is, not followers of Nick 
Bostrom.  Which we might be as well, but I think one such would be called a 
Bostromian, although Bostrompian has more of the flavour of Swift and 
brings to mind Modest Proposals.

So we met on Boxing Day, we fellowship of nine, in the grey afternoon of 
the north lands. Two of the Wise, Steve Witham and Simon! Levy, from the 
First Age of Extropians, had stepped out of primordial time and memory to 
lend their counsel.  Simon! did not bring his fiddle, as promised, but 
other minstrels fretted and plucked.

Unexpectedly, the ranger Lorrey joined our encampment as we sat to our 
spicy string beans and skittles. We cheered his fine tales, grateful we'd 
provisioned enough food to stoke his mighty girth.

We all concluded that northmen should not be so long apart, and vowed to 
bring our clan together with each new moon or, at least, as the season 
changes. And extend a greeting to our cousins in the western lands and over 
the sea to send word of their travels hither, that we might have further 
occasion to feast.

The party main broke after a dozen hours, all but Mike, who remained until 
just before dawn, when he slipped into the last traces of frozen night.


-- Your Chronicler.