Sockquest

Missing socks are one of the perennial stereotypes of our civilisation.  Much ink has been spilled and countless hours wasted agonising over the propensity of pairs of socks to swiftly and mysteriously transform themselves into three totally separate socks at least one of which the owner has never seen before.  So much time and labour have been spent on this subject that for me to write a blog entry about it would be little more than a tacit admission that I have completely exhausted such shallow reserves of imagination and creativity as I once possessed.

I remember a time when all socks matched.  I had a vision in a dream of a golden city, beautiful and graceful where elegant spires challenged the clouds for mastery of the skies and socks presented themselves in serried ranks of perfectly matching pairs.  The city can't be found in this world, to find it I must journey beyond the gate of dreams.  Once in that strange world where everything is possible I can begin my search.

My path will be long and arduous.  I will have to struggle through the wastes of Eftar where the stones themselves cry out for water and are never slaked.  To speak with the seer who can guide my journey I will scale the black, battlemented walls of the city of Skylane which has never fallen to storm or siege and gain passage from the slave trading Lords of Night who rule that fell place.

Through the teeming citizens of Skylane, vicious and corrupted purveyors of decadence, I must hurry.  Never stopping, never turning.  Seek not to gaze on the deformities only half hidden by voluminous robes and take neither food nor drink in this place for what sustains these beings is death to more wholesome folk.  The great temple is a place no sane person would enter but here is found the prophet of chaos.  A tangle of grey hair and staring eyes that have long since ceased to behold the light.

Guided by the cryptic ravings of the mad, blind visionary who sees all I will cross the Perilous Ocean in a boat made of crabs until I reach the shores of fabled Argentar.  Here among the relics of hopes long dead and the howls of unfulfilled dreams I must face the Grim.  Their horrid droning voices shall bring me to the edge of madness and their hunger for life would be satisfied with my own were it not for the heroic lemmings hurling themselves from the cliffs above.  As my squeaking allies batter the Grim with their bodies I can struggle through the caves, slipping on the jagged rocks covered with the slime of ancient regret until finally I can beg audience with the email server of the Outer Gods.  Here amidst the oceans of spam and with thick snaky tendrils of chain letters wrapping themselves around me I can hope to find the answers I seek.

But that sounds like a heck of a lot of trouble to go to just to get a pair of matching socks and frankly the whole thing is starting to sound far too derivative.  So screw it.  If you want matching socks go yourself and if you succeed come back and tell me.  You'll be able to recognise me; I'll be the guy with the mismatched socks having a drink with the Pickman Ghoul.