Chance cleared her throat and looked around carefully. This wasn't the first
time that she had run into someone who seemed to know her personally- only
certain others could see through her constantly shifting nature, but this
individual seemed to *know* her, and she was intrigued and disturbed by the idea
and the arrested motions of the dancefloor.

However, a subtle charge had been laid on her, and she recognised that her story
would somehow interact with what was occuring here. She slowly closed her eyes
and began...

"Off Decatur Street in the French Quarter of New Orleans is a street of many
names. There is the name found in the guidebooks for those seeking antiques or
vintage jewelry there. There is the Spanish name, handed down from history and
preserved in tile set in the building walls. There is the name that the local
people call it. And there is its hidden Name.

On this Street of the Hidden Name (which is not the same name that the tourists
know, or the locals know, or history knows) is a archway, through the wrought
iron fences of which one can glimpse a golden-green courtyard, and hear the soft
murmur of flowing water. If one were able to pass this gate, and pad down the
brick tunnel of shadowy cool white walls, one would find a second archway,
almost completely hung over with trailing vines, flowering with blooms that
softly pervade the air.

Once though the arch the sunlight is surprisingly warm, and it is wise to step
into the shade of the tree in the corner of the courtyard. Yes, there is a tree
there- an enormous tree that has stepped out of antiquity and allowed a
courtyard to grow up around it. But the courtyard does not protect the tree- the
tree needs no protection. Instead, both the tree and the courtyard remain there
solely to embrace the Fountain.

You know this Fountain. It has existed in the myth and history of all worlds and
this world is like all the others. Were one to step to the edge of the pool of
continually moving water, no reflection would be given to you- merely the
continual murmur of gentle water.

The Fountain wells up from the centre of the pool- no brightly splashing
fountain this... not a drop is wasted or a moment spilled. There is no ornately
carved stone figures to pour this water out into the world- merely a shallow pan
that carefully contains clear liquid.

Throughout the history of Times individuals have sought this Fountain for their
own purposes, or for the purposes of others. But- as many things are- it cannot
be found unless one is not looking for it, or it draws you unto itself beyond
your will.

It is said that at the bottom of the basin, beneath the rippling water, lies a
golden ring. It is of this ring which I will now speak."

Chance looked solemnly at the tableau on the dancefloor and thoughtfully sipped
her drink for a moment, then began...

(to be continued)

~elisabeth