The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

[Warlock]

Should have said you were going to a Knights of St. Andrews Conclave. Although then you would be wearing the Sinclair Tartan. { because the Rosslyn Chapel is on the Sinclair Estate.}MMMM>>> maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that. It is after all your Shriners convention. Maybe Coy with his Harley could help you out... {wonders how many will get that reference.}

[davedove]

Oh! Oh! I know who rescued him.

[Splash_4]

Should have said you were going to a Knights of St. Andrews Conclave. Although then you would be wearing the Sinclair Tartan. { because the Rosslyn Chapel is on the Sinclair Estate.}MMMM>>> maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that. It is after all your Shriners convention. Maybe Coy with his Harley could help you out... {wonders how many will get that reference.}

At least one of us, but how did he get it on the high-dive?

[Warlock]

I dunno. Mr. Stevens never explained that one.

[Splash_4]

My popcorn is getting stale waiting for the next installment!

[BEEDEE]

Yet another outstanding reason to return again and again to X Marks the Scot. Honey do list? What Honey do list, honey?

Brian

[Warlock]

Stale popcorn? coat it with honey from the honeydo list.

[GMan]

I really see that someone is really the ghost writer for Harry Potter.

[Panache]

To my Gentle Readers,

My most humble and sincere apologies for any consternation that may have been caused by this lull in my yarn. A story teller’s obligation is to tell the tale. And in this respect I have been sadly distracted by those duties that I have taken upon myself in connection with our most noble forum. One other factor that has indeed contributed my negligence is a sad lack of that “Dutch Courage” ( being the moniker so given of that wondrous drink) that so many a brave English man-at-arms was so taken with during their time in Holland in days of old. I have insured that my provisions of this most necessary ingredient for that preparation of vermouth, gin, and small pickled onion is well stocked. Thus inspired by this concoction I promise to continue my tale and note that as I traveled by rail through the American South West I did not do so unaccompanied. For indeed I was joined in this quest by two gentlemen from our fellowship who also were invited to prove their worth at the League of the Moderators.

Your most humble servant

P.

[Panache]

The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

Chapter 3

Mr. Red

The train I had boarded for my journey eastward sped swiftly past the familiar terrain of my native state. I was left alone with my thoughts as the fellow passengers of my compartment must have viewed my countenance and saw that I was deeply engrossed in my concerns and not to be disturbed. Or perhaps, and being pragmatic this is wont to be far more closer to the truth, they were somewhat unnerved by the naked steel of the unsheathed claymore I had lain on the seat next to me.

Time passed and through the view afforded from the small dirty window next to my seat I watched as the mighty Redwood Forests were left behind to majestic mountains, who in turn were left as we sped into the great deserts of the South West. Though the train had stopped frequently no additional travelers had seen fit to enlarge the ranks of those in my compartment. Indeed only a handful remained, as with furtive glimpses those that I had started this journey with sought to quietly gather their things and find other quarters. We had made our first stop in the proud state of our Union whose name had been derived from the Papago Indian language and which meant in that native tongue “place of the young spring.” I mused at this, as regarded the silvery layer of frost that covered the desert mesa from my small vantage point. So lost in my repose that I failed to notice the entrance of another gentleman clad in highland garb. His tartan kilt was filled with the colors of the copper state but was upstaged by the brilliant mane of red hair that crowned his head. He too carried the naked steel of a highlander’s claymore in his hand.


The conductor, his neatly trimmed mustache twitching, approached the newcomer purposefully. Yet as his stride drew him to close proximity to the new passenger his manner became somewhat confused and a glaze again descended over his eyes. In a quiet monotone he asked “Are you also a Shriner going to the Shriner’s Convention and Clam Bake?” The red haired gentleman looked slightly taken aback at this. But showing the same ingenuity and fortitude of those first intrepid settlers of the Grand Canyon State he clearly understood a good opportunity when one presented itself so readily to him. He concurred (though with some amusement) that that was indeed his person and purpose. When the conductor’s gaze began to become sharper as he asked “and the sword sir?” I mouthed silent advice to the newcomer. With a further puzzled look the red haired man stated “It’s a family heirloom”. The conductor again reverted to an almost somnambulistic disposition and punched his ticket. He left the compartment murmuring quietly to himself “where I come from heirlooms are pocket watches or credenzas…”

Apparently having two kilted and claymore armed individuals proved too much for the remaining passengers in our compartment. A mass exodus ensued and we were left alone The red haired gentleman sat down next to me and lay his sword next to mine. He noted “Why couldn’t the bloody League just send a form letter like everyone else?” I had a suspicion as to the true identity of the gentleman before me. He was not unknown amongst the members of our noble fellowship. A look in his eye cautioned me to secrecy and he introduced himself as “Mr. Red”. I in turn gave mine as the aforementioned “Mr. Plume”. Beyond this small but necessary deception he seemed that he would prove an amiable traveling companion. It was quickly ascertained that he shared my destination and quest. In truth I was relieved not to have to make this journey unaccompanied. We spent many an hour cheerfully discussing highland garb in almost infinitesimal detail. The only drawback to my new companion was Mr. Red’s peculiar brand of humor. Whilst I am certainly to be counted amongst those that are wont to sport a glib tongue and recollect amusing tales for the amusement of others, Mr. Red was able to twist almost anything spoken into a play on those self same words. To describe such humor as “punish” is both descriptive of the humor and it’s consequences on the recipient. Night fell and my companion finished yet another tale with yet another word twist. I listened as Mr. Red concluded with “and there on the campfire, all that was left in my skillet was pan ash!“. I groaned as the train hurtled down the track

To be continued...