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"An Urneventful Day" (Radat) Silently the sun rose over Radat Village. The slightly-more-sober-than-the-rest sailors were stumbling their way from the inn down to the docks, and the rest of the villagers were just starting to wake up. A rooster crowed, and was promptly hit with a lopsided flying urn. "Stinkin' chicken!" Lebrante the artificer muttered. "One of these days I'm going to choke it." He was a tall man, of average build who made the most of it by standing as stiff as a broom at all times. He looked much older than his 40-odd years because of his meticulously shaved head that appeared quite bald to the casual observer. Once, many years ago he wore his hair in a tasteful artificer's fashion, but it got in the way of his work so often that he had no choice but to shave it off. Lebrante was just that way. This morning Lebrante had a lot of work to do. His Celadon Urns had to be polished, inspected for cracks, reglazed, and reassessed for value. Quickly and efficiently he ate his morning meal of rice and entered the back room of his shop. "Celadon Urn #986, Celadon Urn #987, Celadon Urn #988! They're all here!" Lebrante commented with a satisfied smile. It came unnaturally to his stern face, and looked quite like if a stone statue were to suddenly start to smile after years of being buried in the dust of ages. Many people asked Lebrante why he had so many Celadon Urns, but the number that knew could be counted on one hand. One finger, to be perfectly honest. If only they could even begin to understand. Lebrante shook his head and started to polish Celadon Urn #001. It was the first Celadon Urn he put in his collection, those many years ago. "Father, it's flawless!" the young Lebrante breathed as he ran his eyes over the urn his father had just unearthed from the dig site. It was approximately 16 inches tall and perfect cylinder. Minute runes decorated the surface of the smooth green exterior in a language that could only be guessed at by the wisest of the sages. "Yes, Lebrante." Father smiled. "This is a Celadon Urn. I am researching them right now. They are a very crucial link to the past. Someone had to make them and leave them in these ancient temples. Remember that. One day I'll find it out! I swear I will!" Poor Father... Lebrante thought. The man had been collecting Celadon Urns for twice the time that he had, but Father's collection only numbered 100. Time passed, and eventually Lebrante was finished with his daily tasks. Only one customer had come in that day, and he needed but a Failure Urn appraised, so Lebrante closed the shop early and filled out his daily log. The taxmen in these parts could be killers, so he needed to record everything. It's not like he minded, though. The key to knowledge was an organized lifestyle and Lebrante was definitely organized. Thoughts of Celadon Urns dancing in his head, Lebrante lay down in his threadbare bed and slept.
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