“Whatcha doin?” asked Regin. This was one of two ladies that inhabited the trailer just up the road from the shaman’s cave. The shaman had once suspected them of being lesbians, but now knew a wholly different story.
“I’m writing my address,” replied the shaman. “I will be giving it to mark the occasion of my ten-thousandth post.”
“Fence posts?”
“Posts on the 24 Hour Campfire. It’s a. . . ”
“Oh, that place you told me about . The place where they talk twaddle all day.”
“Well, that isn’t exactly the way I’d put it.”
“Well,” she replied. “Most of the stuff you’ve shown me was twaddle.”
“I invented you for it,” replied the shaman. “I invented you and Kira as a device to show Ken Howell that writing fantasy was just as powerful as . . .”
“Twaddle,” replied Regin.
“You’re certainly in a mood.”
“I am,” she replied. “Humor me. I am in a bad mood. Read me what you’ve written so far. It will get my mind off my headache.”
“There is not all that much yet.”
“Read it.” Valkyries had this odd thing that happens when they get angry. Their eyes kind of light up and stuff across the room starts melting and catching fire. The shaman saw a bit of a smolder in Regin's and decided it was not a morning to antagonize her.
“Okay. Errr. . . um . . . My address to the 24 Hour Campfire on the occasion of my 10,000th post and assumption of duties as official Campfire B’wana. Delivered on . . . well, I’m not sure when Rick is going to schedule the event so that part is not filled in yet. I’ll skip down . . . AH! Here! Good day to all of you, gentle people of the Campfire, and your sock puppets.
“I can see this was a mistake, but go on.” Regin looked peeved.
“That’s all I have so far,” replied the shaman. “I just got started before you showed up.”
“ I’m going home and take Ibuprofen,” she said flatly. “Come down later. Kira’s making pancakes. That’s why I came up here. Kira says to bring Pooh.
