Comment: Raynor Village #1

Welcome to the first issue of the Raynor Village Magazine!

EXCLUSIVE! Interview with Giles Melang

Raynor Village: We're proud to have Giles Melang with us at the Village offices this afternoon. Giles, thank you for joining us.
Giles Melang: That's quite alright.
RV: Now Giles, tell us: what's the real inside scoop on this shares sale claim? Do you have an ulterior motive?
GM: Anterior what? What on Micras are you talking about?
RV: Is this some kind of scheme to attack the personal integrity of the newly-elected Praetor?
GM: The Pra- what scheme?
RV: You do admit that you made a claim against Simon ben Erasmus in the Shirerithian Judex yesterday?
GM: No, I don't admit it. You're talking rubbish. I wasn't there, I haven't set foot in that place for fifteen years.
RV: Well, what were you doing yesterday?
GM: I was manning my stall all day.
RV: Your... stall? Is this some kind of new approach to executive commercial awareness?
GM: No, it's what I do every day. I sell fresh fish and fruit in Northshire. On the weekends I move to the front gate of the Mogbeth.
RV: Interesting revelation, exclusive to the Raynor Village! So, how's business?
GM: Not bad. I've brought some with me, if you're interested. Not wasting time with this interview without a sale.
RV: (pause) You are Giles Melang, aren't you?
GM: No, I'm Gilly Melon. How about half a dozen bream for 7 erb?
RV: 7 erb! Who do you think I am, Gilly, some interviewer who hasn't got a clue about the price of bream? I'll give you 4 erb.
GM: 5 erb, and I'll point out the one you don't want to eat.
RV: Done. Well thanks for joining us Gilly, it's been a pleasure doing business with you and our readers will no doubt see you this Saturday for the Mogbeth Theatre's new production, Rossheim and Krumsson Lla'i Aren't Dead.

Cartoon

Ode to G.M. (aka G.C. in Alexandria)
By Mr. E. Guest & Anon E. Mus

To me the sweetest gift of all is gold;
Fills me more than chocolate when you scoff it.
Though you might say it makes you harsh and cold,
The fires of my home and hearth say: "Profit!"

But lightly mayest the dew drops of your breast
Trickle from your beating heart in flutter;
For me, love's true form is a locked-up chest
Filled with cash, bright as jam and yellow as butter.

Unmoved you will not find a part of me
By sight of poor and hopeless wretched souls.
To tears I'm brought, so far from my normal glee,
By thought of capital lost, money owed.

But now my dreams have all been but fulfilled:
Earning, not working; no tax, never billed!