I've done some searching about stocking fridges with food, but haven't been able to find anything on a couple of questions:

I know that by adding home-grown crops to your fridge, the food you cook satisfies sims' hunger more quickly; but, will your meals be better regardless of what you stock the fridge with?  Are lemons "better" than tomatoes, for example?  Do you need a variety of fruits/veggies to get the best meals, or does a fridge filled with tomatoes alone give the same benefits?  Are all sparkly meals the same?

Also, does it make a difference how much you stock the fridge with--does stocking with 10 tomatoes last longer than 100?  If it does, then how much longer?  I've read conflicting info on whether or not stocking the fridge with stuff from your garden actually restocks the fridge (in the same way as buying groceries does), or just makes your meals better.

Much thanks, P

The only image editing program I've ever really used is Windows Paint, and I'm quickly finding that it's good for resizing pics but can't easily do anything else--if it can do them at all.  What image editors do you use? Which one do you think is the best?

Thanks for ideas, psionexile

Are the images you see in the thought bubbles and the speech bubbles stored somewhere in the game files you've installed onto your computer, or on the game disks themselves?

What I want to be able to do is take pictures of sims thinking/discussing topics appropriate to the scene, by cut-and-pasting those images into the picture over the bubbles already present (does that make any sense?).

I can try and hunt for the pictures I want in-game, take screen caps and get them that way--but that could be tedious, especially for images I want that don't come up that often.  I figure I can "guide" the disussion using the "change topic" command, but even so I can't control exactly what they're saying.  Plus, I'm pretty sure that sims won't speak or think of generic items from the Buy catalog except in "watch clouds"/"stargaze," and I don't know of any way to guide those processes.  There must be other thought/speech bubble images I can't bring up, that I simply haven't decided I need yet.

I'd appreciate any help.  Thanks, psionexile.

Puck jumped over the closed door into the passenger seat of Mercutio's sleek convertible.  He was barely in his seat when Mercutio peeled away from the Summerdream manor.

Mercutio looked over the edge of his sunglasses.  "Nice suit, dude."

"You too, Merc."  Mercutio was wearing a white dress shirt lassoed by a loosely-knotted tie.  A platinum chain secured his wallet to his loose cargos, which draped low enough on his hips to reveal brocade-patterned silk boxers.  "Absolutely dressed up, for you anyways."

"Hey, it costs a lot of money and a hell of a lot of time to pull off a look like this.  'Totally don't care' meets 'Veronaville runway.'"  As he pulled onto the highway, a gust of wind punched his hair over his face.  Puck winced as Mercutio swerved and straddled two lanes while he shook his hair free.

Mercutio typically always had to pay attention that his shaggy black hair didn't cover his face like a curtain.  He was skinny, wiry but sinewy, with lanky arms and legs.  He had a round, pale face with heavy-lidded eyes that always looked closed.

"Damn!" Puck swore.  He turned halfway around to look at the road disappearing behind them.  "I got this flower thing for Hermia...."

"A corsage."

"Right, whatever.  I forgot it--it's in the fridge.  Think we can go back for it?  Hermia'll kill me."

"I'm not turning around now.  Besides, what Hermia doesn't know won't hurt her."

"Hermia told me to get it."

Mercutio grabbed Puck's shoulder jovially.  "Ah, my friend the hopeless romantic.  The exit for Bluewater Village is coming up, there's probably a flower store there if you want to stop."

"Nah, man, screw it.  I don't remember what kind she wanted anyways.  I'd probably be in more trouble if I brought the wrong kind than if I just don't bring one at all."

"Veronaville Academy's power couple, Summerdream and Capp.  All the people in that family are crazy, you can do way better, bro.  At least Ro has an excuse."

"And what's that?"

"He's sticky with love.  Both Juliette and Hermia are pretty hot, but Hermia's cold to just about everyone but you."  He paused.  "Hot, cold, you get the idea.  She must not like me because I'm a Monty."

"She doesn't like you because you're a jerk."

"Ah, I see.  It's a good thing we're best friends, or I'd think you were ganging up on me."

Best friends, Puck thought.  He slid lower on the seat and changed the radio station.

**********

There was some kindly magic at work in Pleasantview Park that day, the end of summer, just before the first of September.  Half the park had been decked out for the wedding of Cassandra Goth to Don Lothario, an affair that had been discussed, dissected and debated for the better half of the social season.  All was suffuse with white, as if nature itself had blessed them with its purity; even the guests somehow knew to sport themselves in their nonpareil whitest finery.  The landscape was dreamy like gazing through snow-tinted glasses.

Blossoms from apple trees drifted to the grass like flakes of frost, while creamy silken petals caught the wind and floated like butterflies as they escaped the gnarled branches of cherry trees.  Swans sailed around the lake and down the connecting brook with silent dignity under the arched eyes of stone-still herons, and in bamboo cages on the peak of the greensward a hundred doves cooed and patiently awaited their freedom.  White sand was raked into calmness around moss-laden boulders in low rock gardens.  Linen white lilies and orchids filled crystal vases on the many round tables set up for the guests.  Unlit paper lanterns wove in and out of the trees.  A great chalky white marquee tent dominated the park, three stories high with many triangular flags rippling in the wind, like a castle.  Only timid, subtle shades of other colors were allowed amidst the white--creamy washed-out pinks, modest periwinkles, streaks of gold and rivulets of emerald.

**********

Titania and Oberon were sitting, under the shade of Titania's wide parasol.  Her antique ivory bustle blossomed out like the bell of a huge foxglove flower; her bodice cinched tightly with sleeves puffed like the balloon of a dirigible.  Her tea hat, a whirlpool of velvet, lace ribbon and ostrich feathers, sat jauntily cocked on her head.  The profusion of flounces, ruffs, puffs and fringes would have overhwelmed a lesser woman, but Titania wore it with the grace of a second skin.  Oberon, on the other hand, his suit more or less a copy of his son's, seemed as tame as a store-bought rabbit.

"Do you see him, sitting over there?  He shouldn't be alone, not on a day like this," said Titania, gesturing with her champagne flute at Mortimer Goth.  The father of the bride was sitting on a stone bench in a spotlessly crisp tuxedo; he was listlessly poking the cracks of the stone path with his cane.  "Maybe I should go talk to him...."

Oberon sighed.  "Why torture yourself?  You know you shouldn't--or rather, you can't.  There are so many things you need to put from your mind today.  Just play the blandly kind guest, enjoy the champagne, maybe we'll dance a few times to the string quartet.  Truthfully, I'm sorry you had to come at all.  Actually, you didn't need to come."

"Please, let's put this argument in the past--again."  She ran her finger across the edge of the champagne flute and listened to the tone.  "I deserve to have this day, I've earned it, Oberon.  I've been patient for so long."

"Yes, my dear, I know."  Oberon stood and offered his hand to Titania.  "Come on, I see Paul and Jenny over there.  They're relatively the most normal people apt to be a part of this grand occasion.  Let's go say hi."

**********

Jenny Smith was dabbing her husband's lapel with a napkin when Titania and Oberon greeted them.  Jenny beamed at them, then returned to grimace at her husband.

"We haven't been here ten minutes and he's already dropped a deviled egg on his brand new tuxedo.  Husbands can never be left alone, right Titania?"

"Please be excusing me and my unfortunate appearance," said Pollination Tech #9 apologetically.  His nostrils flared in and out vexedly.  "The gravity of this planet I am still endeavoring to understand.  Besides, it was a stuffed mushroom."

"What will people think if they see that I, the maid of honor, am walking arm in arm with a slob?"  She tried to rub the now invisible stain with her finger, dipped in champagne, then gave up.

"My wife, birth queen of my children, they will think of you as being a gaseous nebula among all the other dwarf stars today.  I am being sure you have nothing to be worried for."

Jenny smiled and kissed her husband's pear-green skin; he blushed, but his lips curved up into a wide crescent smile.  "You're always reminding me why I fell in love with you, my extraterrestrial poet.  Titania, does Oberon serenade you with such romantic sonnets?"

Titania and Oberon exchanged glances.  "Certainly I'm not the wordsmith your husband is, Jenny," said Oberon.  "But I try."

Jenny raised her glass.  "To poetry, and to happy marriages," she toasted.  "Hear, hear!" The four clinked their glasses.

"Look, over there," said Titania.  "That looks like Darren Dreamer."

Darren was sitting at a table, not-quite-surreptitiously nipping from a flask that he kept in his coat pocket.  His head rested forlornly in his hand, propped up by his elbow on the table.  He sighed, and the party guests moved about him.

"That he is here is to me truly un-understandable!" said #9.  "Does he not know the concept of a courtesy invitation?"

"I'm sure," said Titania, turning her eyes to Oberon stiffly," that he merely wants a chance to be with, if only from afar, those who are important to him."

"I'm sure you're totally right," Oberon returned her look.  "But we can't let him make a fool of himself--he could ruin the entire wedding."

"Ah, but love is more powerful than twin endurium sub-light engines.  That Darren Dreamer has his heart bound to one he forlornly cannot possess is truly miserable yet worthy of many rhyming couplets."

Jenny kissed her husband.  "You see, Titania, what did I tell you?"

Oberon put his glass on the table.  "I think we should go and make a preemptive intervention with Darren.  You'll help me out, Paul?"

#9 blinked his saucer-like black eyes.  "Yes, of course my friend of friends.  However, I was seeing the General Grunt some time ago at the shrimp cocktail table!  I am much wishing to avoid him--keeping Darren Dreamer in uneventful drunkenness would be totally worth not a penny if I ruin the wedding myself with a confrontation!  For beating up the General is something on this beautiful day of days that I wish to avoid!"

News items, ten years ago

*****

Sim Broadcasting Network News at 11:00, April 5:

Kennedy Cox:  Welcome to SBN News at 11:00.  Our top story tonight: a young boy is found by engineers at the bottom of an artificial lake, but is mysteriously unharmed.  Our ace reporter Crystal Vu reports live from the scene:

Crystal Vu:  Thank you Kennedy.  I'm standing here on the edge of what was just yesterday Lake Avon.  As you can see, the lake is totally gone, exposing the half-buried ruins of the ancient city of Avon, which was flooded by a local river over four hundred years ago.  Archaeologists have long wanted to get access to the ruins there, and decided this year to pump the water out of the lake and into a reservoir.

What the archaeologists didn't expect to find was a young boy lying in the mud at the bottom of the empty lake.  He was quickly revived and apparently unharmed by the experience.  Dr. Oberon Gossamer, the lead scientist of the project, commented earlier today:

Dr. Oberon Gossamer:  We're at a loss to figure out how the little boy managed to get in the lake in the first place.  We set up numerous warning signs, as well as marking out a barrier in yellow tape; none of the scientists noticed anything amiss.  He must have gotten into the lake and sunk like a stone quite quickly--there wasn't much liquid in his body.  But I hear he's holding up pretty good, and the project is proceeding on schedule.

Crystal Vu:  The boy was brought to Prospero Gale Memorial Hospital, where he is listed in good condition.  We'll bring you more on this story as it develops.  For SBN news, I'm Crystal Vu; back to you Kennedy....

*****

from the Pleasantview Courier, April 6:

"ARTIFACT BOY" MAKING QUICK RECOVERY; AMNESIA FURTHERS MYSTERY

A young boy found at the bottom of Lake Avon is completely healthy, except for a total lack of memory which doctors say may be permanent.

After draining Lake Avon to gain access to the ruins of the old city of Avon, archaeologists discovered a boy at the bottom of the bowl of the city, apparently having recently drowned there.  The boy was revived on scene and brought to Prospero Gale Memorial, where he's been deemed happy and healthy, though suffering from a complete amnesia which has erased any knowledge of his family or how he ended up in the lake; indeed, he's forgotten who he is and even his own name.

The research of child psychologists indicates that memory loss is often associated in children with traumatic experiences that might be difficult to process.  Cognitive psychotherapy tailored to childrens' psyches is considered controversial in the scientific community, for its low success rate and the emergence of violent tendencies and mental disorder recidivism during the subject's teen years.

Doctors examined him and found him otherwise healthy, with above average intelligence and vocabulary.  They estimate his age at six years old.  Doctors have named him "Puck," which "just came to us," said Oberon Gossamer, the lead scientist of the Lake Avon project.  The archaeological team has unofficially adopted the boy as a symbol of good luck for their excavations.

To avoid having the child taken away by a social worker and placed into government care, Dr. Gossamer has volunteered to adopt him, until such time as his real family is located.

*****

from the Pleasantview Courier, April 14:

WEALTHY SOCIALITE DISAPPEARS!!!

On Friday evening, Mrs. Bella Goth of Pleasantview disappeared from her home.  Alone in her home at the time, her disappearance was not reported to the police until the next day, by her husband Mr. Mortimer Goth, CEO of Goth Pharmaceuticals.  

Captain Marylena Hamilton of the Pleasantview robbery-homicide division released a statement this afternoon, in which she indicated that while there were no signs of a struggle, nor evidence of a robbery, police are not ruling out foul play.

A local resident, Mr. Don Lothario, has been questioned in the disappearance, though police deny he is a suspect.

*****

from the National Dispatch, April 18:

BIZARRE THEORIES IN GOTH DISAPPEARANCE!  REWARD OFFERED!

Today police officially announced that Mr. Don Lothario of Pleasantview has been eliminated as a suspect in the mysterious disappearance of community leader and philanthropist Bella Goth.  The ongoing investigation, which has attracted national attention, has produced some startling--and peculiar--leads.

Amateur birdwatcher Mrs. Wanda Tinker of Bluewater Village, claims to have seen Mrs. Goth in a hot-air balloon with an unknown companion.  "I've been watching birds for twenty five years, and that was no bird," she said at a news conference this afternoon.  "When I saw that lady's picture on the television, I knew exactly what had happened."  Mrs. Tinker, who claims to have read three thousand mystery novels and is a Certified Investigator from the Veronaville Correspondence School of Detectery, has signed a book deal for her step-by-step solving of the case, called That Was No Bird!.

Another theory has been put forth by local Pleasantview citizens Herb and Coral Oldie.  They claim to have photographic evidence that Mrs. Goth was abducted by aliens on the night in question.  The photograph has been examined by Strangetown extraterrestrial expert Pascal Curious.  "I have no doubt in my mind that this is a genuine picture of an alien spacecraft," Curious told the Dispatch in an exclusive interview (see page A-7).  "The blurry nature of the image is typical of alien cloaking technology.  These red and green lights along the edges of the craft are often used to confuse potential abductees and make them docile, and thus more easily captured."  Mr. Curious claims to have been abducted by aliens himself, although he refuses to describe the details of his experience.

Meanwhile, Mr. Mortimer Goth, husband of the missing woman, has offered a one million simoleon reward for any information leading to the whereabouts of his wife.

*****

in the "Community Notes" section of the Veronaville Independent Telegraph, April 30:

At 3:14am last night police responded to a breaking-and-entering alarm at the Vandermorgan Museum.  Museum Board President Consort Capp reports that several "minor antiques of indeterminate value" were stolen.  A museum night watchman is being questioned.

Hey, I really appreciate that you're taking the time to read and let me know you're reading--comments encourage me to keep going, and it's just always nice to hear them.  Keep 'em coming!

Elven_Song, I'll send you a pm late this afternoon or tonight.  I definitely think we can work something out!

--psionexile

Good pictures are beyond my talent, but I think I'm pretty good at writing--can't make pictures talk but can make words walk, as it were.  I considered illustrating my story, but in the end I know that I'd never be satisfied with any picture I made, compared to the "pictures" I can make with words.

An idea:  there are lots of good picture makers here in the forum.  Perhaps one of them (or more than one) would be willing to collaborate with me to add some awesome illustrations.  A potentially cool possibility.

----------

** Present day **

Puck stepped out of the shower and rubbed away the steam from the bathroom mirror.  The sixteen-year-old stared at his reflection; he stared within his reflection, inside himself.

He had a round, oval face framed by longish rust-red hair with a natural inclination to fashionable entanglement; he tried and failed to tame it, pushing strands behind his graceful pointed ears. Pale purple and white ink designs encircled his face, over slender sloping eyebrows, around robust cheekbones and meeting under his chin.  The ink highlighted a tenderly faint femininity to the cast of his face that, rather than paint him effeminate, soothed his otherwise alpha-masculine countenance into the beauty that photographers capture in precisely shadowed black-and-white photgraphs.  He had blue eyes, wide and slim and swallowing, and long eyelashes.  A scattered constellation of freckles dotted his pecs and down the creases of his torso, his wide shoulders tapering down to his slim waist like the head of a screwdriver.

Puck took a deep breath to compose himself--compose being a very apt choice of words.  He drew together the threads of himself, or rather his public self, his "outside-me" as he liked to secretly think of it: the popular, charismatic and all-around everybody else's Puck.  Puck the quarterback and the soccer striker; the salutorian, the student council VP (he diplomatically ceded the top positions to the harsh ambitions of his girlfriend Hermia); he played last season the role of the Arghist soldier in the drama club's production of The Kozy Kisch Gnome.  It seemed to him that everyone owned a little shard of him, everybody except he himself.

It was true that Puck didn't entirely disappear in the face of his life.  He was a natural athlete and loved adrenaline, he savored intellectual triumph, his pliable personality made wearing diplomatic or theatrical roles as easy as pulling on a tee shirt.  The real Puck was the crafted Puck's noontime shadow.

So he sighed, and stretched.  He thought about the long ride to Pleasantview, and how he'd have his best friend Mercutio all to himself; he buried the thought in his self-hatred.  He wrapped a towel around his waist and went to his bedroom.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he groaned.  His little sister Bottom was jumping on his bed, creaking the springs loudly.  She laughed, and her tightly curled hair flopped up and down.  She was already wearing her party dress, and it opened like a bell as she jumped.  She took one high flying leap, landed on her butt on the edge of Puck's bed and bounced off with the studied grace of a bed-jumper with some serious practice under her belt.

Puck cinched the towel tighter.  He looked at the open door and saw a bent fork impaled in the lock.  "This is my room, Bottom!  Whether it's locked or not you have no right to be in here.  Go jump on your own bed."

Bottom chewed her lower lip.  "I've worn out my bed.  Besides, I want to ask you...."

"No, you can't come with me and Mercutio to the wedding.  Mercutio's new car has only two seats."

"Why not?  That's not fair.  Maybe I...."  Puck cut her off so quickly she forgot to close her widely open mouth.

"I'm not letting you sit on my lap."

Bottom tried to set a forlorn moue on her lips.  "You never liked me!"

"I'm also not going to fall for that routine, not today.  C'mon, get out of here so I can get dressed.  Please.

Bottom shrugged and smiled again; it was against her nature to grimace very long.  She left Puck's bedroom, prying the fork out and closing the door behind her.

----------

Puck's formal attire was a white suit, form-fitting and rather old-fashioned; a long, open coat, ivory in color, over a high collared shirt and many-buttoned vest, knee-length pants and silk hose crayon-white, and white shoes with silvery buckles.  It was tighter than Puck cared for and felt very comfortable in, though he admitted the coat flattered his hard earned torso, and the hose clung attractively to his calves.

He knocked on his mother's bedroom door.  It had never seemed out of place to him that his parents had separate bedrooms.  Some appropriate unspoken knack that satisfied everyone in the household.  "It's open, Puck."

Titania sat in front of her vanity in a throne-like high back chair.  The myriad jars, glass bottles of disparate colors, a variety of tools laid out with the precision of a surgeon's assistant all gave the vanity the atmosphere of an alchemist's workbench.  Titania was brushing her flowing orange-red hair and counting the strokes.

"Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred."  She put the brush away and turned to face her adopted son with a smile; her thin lips made a crescent moon.  She had a long and thin nose sliding out of her face under emerald eyes.  Like Puck an ink design wrapped around her face, though more subtle and a shade of coral pink that sometimes faded when she blushed.

"Here, help me clasp this necklace."  Puck tweaked the delicate clasp; Titania watched them both in her vanity's mirror.  "You look so beautiful, Puck...so handsome, I mean."  Puck finished clasping the necklace in place.

"Mom, she picked the lock and was in my room again."

"Darling, this is when you're supposed to say that I look beautiful too."

"You look sublime, Mother.  This time she used a fork.  The last time it was her library card.  When the contractors come next week to build a front door to the house, maybe I'll get them to put in a deadbolt on my bedroom door."

"She's only seven, Puck.  Girls that age are usually rather precocious."

"'Precocious' is what people say when what they really mean is...."

"Okay, I get it.  I'll get your father to talk to her."  She turned in her chair to look at Puck directly.  "When is Mercutio going to pick you up?"

"Soon."

"He's a nice young man.  I wonder where he gets it from; the Montys aren't exactly the most gentile of the Veronaville gentry."

"They're pretty precocious, you mean."

She laughed.  "I guess I do.  A very nice young man.  Very handsome."

"I suppose so."

Titania briefly slid the back of her fingers along Puck's cheek.  "I know you didn't want to go to these nuptial festivities.  Please try and have a good time."

Puck started to reply, when loud metal music started blaring outside the house.  They heard three quick blasts from a car horn.

"That's Mercutio.  I gotta go."  Puck kissed his mother on the cheek and left the room.

Titania watched him go, dropping her smile.  She sighed quietly, and turned back to the vanity to attend to the details of her loveliness.

** 434 years ago **

The palazzo was burning.

The city of Avon, the capital and seat of the principate, filled a wide, sloping valley.  Great villas mingled with modest plebeian insula, connected by tangled roads lined by great cypress and immodest cherry trees.  At one end of the valley a waterfall cascaded down from a high rocky bluff, following a canal and surrounding the royal palace in a deep, clear moat.  But that night, the Most Serene City was collapsing from within.

Upon the roof of the palazzo there was an observatory, a sort of broad, round platform.  A massive armillary sphere perched there.  The seven brass rings, wider than the length of a man's outstretched arms, were engraved with cryptic icons and brain-numbing mathematics; each ring rested at a wild angle, no doubt describing some stellar latitude.  Crank shafts, gears and chains comprised the intestines of the machine.  The old man rested his hand upon one of the rings as he watched the enraged city.

For hours the mob had grown, at first a handful of fist-waving Reformist zealots, then by sundown an enraged, energized populace ran amok and let loose their frenzy on anything in their path.  They ripped paving stones from courtyards and catapaulted them through ancient stained glass windows, and cheered; they tossed ropes with rusty iron hooks to grab the deep-carved cornices of the colossal bronze statue of Lear the Greatking, yanking it to the ground, and danced to the groaning metal--groaning as if the spirit of the King himself was dying all over again; they hurled torches into broken windows and doors and watched the palazzo choke on fire and flames, chanting death to the heathens!  A single tear slid anonymously into the old man's beard.

A young man, cradling books and scrolls in his arms, flew up the spiral stairs to the observatory platform.  Sweat stung his eyes.  He glanced out over the city and lost his breath.

"Master Featherlight, please, we must go now!  There's still time to get to the secret tunnels.  Why have you come up here?  Soon the way down will be blocked."

"No, Jihoon, I'm old...positively ancient, now...I cannot escape my destiny."

Featherlight was, indeed, ancient.  His hair was white, pale and iridescent, and it fell past his shoulders to his waist.  An equally long beard he kept tucked in the folds of his robes, which were red velvet silk brocade.  The tips of his pointed ears just barely poked out from his hair, like seedlings searching for the spring's first sun.  He turned to Jihoon and laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder.  The wrinkles that dominated the Master's face faded a little when he smiled.

"You, you and my other students, will carry on my legacy.  And someday, perhaps, there will be better days, and we will meet again.  I have seen too much, made too many sacrifices...made too many deals that should be undone...for everything to be forgotten.  We all must pay the price for our sins."

"We will always follow your will, Master.  But we're scattering, and without you I fear all will be lost.  Reformists have broken into the lower floors and are burning the students out into the streets.  We've gathered many of your inventions, but we've lost much to the looters.  The Heart...."

Master Featherlight jumped.  "Yes?  The Heart...is everything...."

"I wanted to let you know, that Brillante Summerdream has taken the Heart away safely.  And we've divided the rest of your manuscripts and machines between us, those that we've managed to rescue."  He seemed to straighten his back as he sought courage.  "I promise you, all will be well."

Featherlight sighed.  He put both of his hands on Jihoon's shoulders and focused his piercing stare upon the young man's eyes.  "Everything else is insignificant, Jihoon, compared to the Heart...my greatest creation."  There was a splintered crash, followed by a dreadfully passionate chorus, as the mob uprooted a cedar from the garden that had stood for thousands of years.  "Quickly, my boy, go now!"

Jihoon turned to go.  Then suddenly he spasmed, and fire consumed his body.  He dropped his books and papers and they caught in the air currents like doves.  The odor of singed flesh assaulted Master Featherlight's nose, the scream of his pupil his ears.  Jihoon tumbled down the stairs, a burnt husk.  His murderer stepped over the body and strode to the observatory platform.

He wore a black felt robe that buttoned all the way up to a tight collar, then over his shoulders and down the length of his arms, also tightly bound.  The torchlight cast shadows over his face and made him seem supernatural.  His pale face was dominated by a long fish-hook of a nose, and his grayish hair was bound unforgivingly in cylindrical curls.  And he wore a curious apparatus.

It was a shirt like a maze of woven copper string, covering his torso and snaking along his arms to his wrists; the copper web moved fluidly, like liquid mail, over his body as he moved.  Upon his hands he wore gloves of the same weave, but these were silver slimmer and strictly woven.  Gold bands etched with cursive script bound the gloves to the copper sleeves.  A heavy white silk ribbon wound around his neck, supporting a medallion, a blood red resin disk with wires spitting from its middle like tentacles merging into the copper coat.

The murderer bowed with wide arms.  "Somehow I knew, Master, you'd be drawn here.  Such a first-class view.  My work is, shall we say, entrancing, is it not?"

Master Featherlight looked forlornly at the shadowy man.  "He was just a boy, Tylopoda, just a young boy.  Did his destruction give you that much pleasure?"

Tylopoda flexed his fists, admiring them intently.  "This suit, this weapon, was one of your many great inventions.  You killed the boy as much as I.  Funny how old men see their sins as weaknesses, and young men breed their sins into greatness.  If you're waiting here for some sort of salvation, I think you'll find yourself one lonely, decrepit buffoon.  Though I doubt you'll have the time to plead with silent gods, with the fires licking their way up the walls."

"Oh, Tylopoda...you've changed so much, then?  Once you were my greatest disciple, do you remember?"

Tylopoda's eyes blazed dark and demonic in the inferno of the palazzo..  "Yes, I remember, Master Featherlight, I remember.  I remember how you betrayed me!"

"No, I was trying to save you!  You know now just as much as then.  The secrets you sought were too much for you--you weren't ready!"  He looked over Tylopoda's shoulder at the mob.  "You obviously still aren't."

Tylopoda stepped right up next to Featherlight; the old man cringed as his former student breathed a vicious stench upon him.  He whispered, "No, old man, I'm ready...and if you value your life, you'll see that it's true.  You know what it is I want."

"Never, Tylopoda, never.  It is beyond your reach now."

Tylopoda looked around at the burning palazzo.  "Fool!  You think me as simple as that?  I know more than you think, Master--I know where to look for little children who run from their betters.  I took some secrets away of my own when you cast me from your workshops.  History will judge!  They will write books, and they will call me Tylopoda the Philosopher, Tylopoda the Great, Tylopoda the Saint!"

Master Featherlight shook his head sadly.  "Tylopoda the Apostate, I think.  Tylopoda the Impatient.  Tylopoda the Fool."

Tylopoda slapped the back of his hand across Featherlight's face; the silver glove stripped skin.  He brought his fingers to his lips and looked at the blood.

"The Heart is mine!  It is my inheritance!  My right!" he howled.  He stabbed his finger into his palm to accentuate his words."  "It.  Belongs.  To.  ME!  And I will move heaven and earth, Master, to grasp the Heart in my majesty."

Master Featherlight had to shout over the rage, the rage of the mounting inferno, the frenetic Reformist gangs and the bleeding rage of his old pupil.  "Heaven may be closed to me, Tylopoda, but the earth still obeys me."  And with both hands he grabbed a handle of the armillary sphere.  Tylopoda raised his hand to cast fire from the silver glove, but the Master slammed the handle into its slot first.  The observatory platform shuddered, and both men fell.  Then the armillary sphere woke up.

The great brass rings creaked and began to spin.  Brass shavings scraped away into the wind as the rings slid against each other; and as they began to accelerate, they scraped sparks.  Faster and faster the rings twirled, with each gyroscopic revolution.  The sphere began to shudder and pull at the many bolts and gears that struggled to keep up.  Both men stood, wobbling on the platform.  The rings whirred loudly and they covered their ears from the tenor.

The distressed rings spun so fast that they practically vanished, revealing the center of the armillary sphere.  Perched there was a crystal whirlpool of energy, a sound vortex squealing.  The rings began to wobble critically, and the entire sphere threatened to fly off of the platform.

And then it activated.

Each ring shunted to a critical stop, larger to smallest, each one within the other.  Thump...thump...thump thump--thumpthumpthump!  The whirlpool elongated and shot like a spear--directly towards the waterfall.  For a moment nothing happened, and a preturnatural silence fell like a blanket over Avon.

Then the bluff exploded, erupting great chunks of granite into the sky.  Rock dust scattered upwards and shaded the last remaining sunrays of dusk.  As if the jugular of the river had been sliced, the water, with nothing to restrain it, spewed out in a tidal wave of roaring watery hordes and cirrus foam.  Avon began to drown.

Tylopoda, shocked, stood statue still.  Master Featherlight bent over and picked up a tiny gear that the armillary sphere shook loose; he turned it over in his hand as if it were a cherry blossom, and wanted to smile.

"You were right about one thing, my old student," the Master murmured.  "History will judge."

nb:  This story is about the Sims (the Maxis pre-made sims and townies), but I'm using only words and no pictures.  I spoke to kathy and she said that was okay.  What I hope is that you'll read and comment and/or critique as if it were any other story.  I think the chapters may seem excessively long without pictures, but I hope you won't be overwhelmed by that, and I will try to make chapters and chapter breaks as reasonable as I can.

So there you have it!  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.

Much thanks, psionexile.

Very cool, thank you so much!